


The Sweet Science of Bruising

by raphae11e



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Atlas (BioShock) is Not Frank Fontaine, Atlas (BioShock) is Real, Awkward Sexual Situations, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Pining, Romantic Fluff, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Tags will be added, Voice Kink, tl;dr Jack and Atlas are boxers and are also gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26100646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e/pseuds/raphae11e
Summary: Jack, up-and-coming boxer and darling of Fort Frolic, is put in a bit of a predicament: an impromptu move to Rapture's working class district and a training regimen at The Fighting McDonagh's. A bid to increase his popularity (and value) as a fighter, Fontaine tells him.That's all well and good-- but McDonagh's own prize fighter is proving to be quite the distraction.... Alright, perhaps that's a bit of an understatement.
Relationships: Atlas/Jack (BioShock)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh shit, here we go folks. This fic has been in the works for the better part of several years now, I think??? I wrote a couple scenes from it when I first thought of the idea, but didn't do much with them beyond that. Now, since I'm trapped inside all the time, I've picked it back up again! I guess the power of horniness really is that strong, huh?
> 
> If no one else is making Bioshock content in 2020, you can be damn sure that I still am. >;^) Hope you enjoy this first chapter!

Very early on in his life, Jack had decided that he is far more comfortable in the ring than anywhere else. 

_He’s a natural,_ he’d heard Mr. Fontaine say on more than one occasion. Usually to prospective sponsors, so perhaps there was _some_ embellishment to the words-- and his guardian was no stranger to embellishment-- but there had to be some truth behind it. No sooner had Jack’s debut match ended than he’d realized. The burn in his muscles, the ache in his bones, the buzz of adrenaline through him like a whole swarm of hornets… it had felt _right._ And lucky for him, Rapture’s public loved to see a little bloodshed.

Rising through the ranks had come naturally to him, and Jack’s place as a prize boxer had been secured far more quickly than he imagines even Mr. Fontaine had expected. Perhaps that was why, now that his reputation precedes him, Jack had been practically forced out of his childhood home, ushered through the door like a guest who’d overstayed their welcome. 

The explanation he’d been given was something along the lines of, “I ain’t your nanny anymore, kid.” In his heart of hearts, Jack had been a little stung by that sentiment. He’d always done his best to avoid getting in his caretaker’s way; in fact, as a child he’d been distinctly proud of his ability to disappear for hours, hidden away in some corner, busy with his toys. Mr. Fontaine would always come find him eventually, perhaps confused by the silence.

Really, to call the man his nanny would perhaps be a bit of a stretch-- but Jack has never been one to pick fights. That is, fights outside of specific, delineated, well-worn boundaries.

He’s living in Pauper’s Drop now, a change that was almost akin to culture shock at first. The tiny flat with its rickety floorboards is so unlike the huge, open spaces and gilded walls of Mr. Fontaine’s apartments. He’s lived there for as long as he can remember and had grown used to its nooks and crannies. Now, his entire home feels like one large cranny itself, all awkward edges and unfamiliar spaces. 

Even though Jack has taken a step towards independence, Fontaine insisted on still paying for lodging, and to fund all equipment, training, and medical care. He’ll be training with the same coaches, in the same place, and-- presumably-- will fight in the same rings. Fights in fancy venues meant for the upper class, ones that bring in the most money. Mr. Fontaine seems the most pleased by the attention those matches garnered, seeing as he gets a cut of Jack’s winnings for his trouble. 

Shady business dealings or no, the familiarity of it all is something Jack can hardly wait for. Returning to the ring for the first time since moving will feel like coming home. 

That is, until a call from his guardian-- his boss-- that morning sets everything off-kilter.

 _It’s a different venue,_ Fontaine tells him. _Closer to that place of yours. Thought it might be about time to expand our horizons._

Jack’s stomach sinks. Some part of him wonders if this is some kind of chastisement, or a punishment for some mistake he has no memory of making. “Why not Fort Frolic?”

 _Like I said, kid._ There’s a slow breath; the drag of a cigarette, no doubt. _Expanding horizons. There are whole markets we ain’t even tapped yet, and you’re a big enough name to draw a crowd even in some shithole around the corner._

He’s not wrong. Part of the fame is due to Fontaine himself, of course, big name that he is-- but Jack is hardly a slouch in a fight. He’d been quick to gain followers, with some of them even going so far as to send him fan mail. The same might be true of lesser known venues.

Still, he wouldn’t call himself… excited, exactly, for this change. But what choice does he have? With a sigh, Jack shifts the phone receiver to his other ear and says, “So what’s the name of this… shithole?”

Fighting McDonagh’s is definitely a far cry from Rapture’s high-end establishments. It’s first and foremost a tavern, laid in floorboards that look just as worn as many of its patrons. Despite the weathered appearance, however, it does boast a spectacular view of the ocean life outside of Rapture, and the atmosphere is surprisingly close to welcoming. Jack feels his nerves begin to soothe just the slightest bit when he takes it all in.

“The ring ain’t open all the time,” says the bartender on his first visit. He barely glances up at Jack’s greeting. “You’ll have to train an’ fight after nightfall. Fights are on Saturdays, 7:30.”

“Thank you, sir.”

At his response, the man finally looks up long enough to take Jack in. It only takes a moment for his expression to change from impassive to suspicious. He asks, “You’re that _new_ kid, ain’t you?”

The _new_ part should have been implied when Jack showed up asking for specifics, but clearly that’s not his meaning. It’s something much more pointed. At a loss for words, Jack simply replies, “Yes.”

He gets no verbal answer-- only a snort and a derisive shake of the head. Taking the hint, he retreats down the stairs to begin his training. The facilities he finds are more than enough for him to work with. Certainly not as fancy as what he’s used to, but Jack is nothing if not economical. 

What quickly becomes the main problem is not the building, but its inhabitants. Because once he’s properly introduced to the customers, and to the other fighters, it becomes clear that the cold shoulder he’d received is near universal.

No one introduces themselves at his first session. They don’t at the second, nor the third, fourth, or fifth. Jack begins to feel his skin crawl every time he enters the tavern, like the weight of a hundred accusing eyes. He’s no stranger to Rapture’s residents tripping over themselves to meet “the prize fighter”-- it’s all the patrons of Fort Frolic would call him, thanks to Cohen’s theatrics-- but here… here, he might as well be a shadow of his usual reputation. An undesirable one, at that.

It takes a month before he’s registered for his first fight. A roster is posted up near the bar, and when Jack comes in that night to train, a small group has gathered, whispering furtively. He has to hang back for a moment before they notice him and part long enough for him to approach the sign. 

_DEBUT BOUT,_ it reads. There’s a list of a few opening, smaller fights below, printed in more understated lettering. And then: _FONTAINE’S fighter vs. ATLAS._

Jack winces. The intent behind the font choice is far from subtle.

He trains that night with this new information on his mind. Being so openly rejected by the other fighters here has inconvenienced him in more ways than one, it seems: he has no idea who Atlas might be. He doesn’t know the name, or the man’s fighting style-- God, he doesn’t even know what he _looks_ like. Clearly it’s not someone who runs in Fontaine’s usual circles, which is hardly surprising, but it does leave Jack at a distinct disadvantage. While he knows nothing of his opponent, his opponent knows potentially everything about him. 

That’s the mindset with which he approaches the day of the match. Maybe not ideal, but at least he’ll be prepared for the worst.

Most of the time, the crowd at McDonagh’s keeps to themselves; they aren’t allowed down into the basement to watch training, so they focus on their drinks. Tonight, however, the approaching fight puts a buzz in the air like electricity. Everyone moves and eddies about him, chatter fills the air, and for a moment, Jack hardly feels out of place.

The closer he gets to the basement’s center, the more that sentiment changes. People begin to turn and watch him as he approaches his corner of the ring. The most avid of spectators are seated nearly right up against the ropes. When he passes by, a momentary hush falls over a few of the tight-knit circles. It never lasts for long, especially with the way drinks are loosening people’s tongues, but it rings loud in Jack’s ears regardless.

He spends more time than usual on wrapping his knuckles, lacing his boots, putting on his gloves. Double-checking each hand and foot twice, even three times. Anything to keep him from thinking about the crowd on all sides, watching him eagerly, clearing hoping for a loss. 

His record is well known, and while it isn’t perfect, it’s a near thing. That only makes spectators more hungry for him to fall. 

A sudden burst of smattered applause startles Jack out of his reverie. When he looks up, there’s another man in the ring-- and he realizes that only now is he seeing his opponent for the first time. 

Atlas is older than he’d expected. His build is sturdy, with a defined chest and arms but a softer stomach: a manual laborer, then. Most lower class boxers don’t only fight, Jack has discovered from listening to the others while training. They don’t receive the same sponsorship as those at Fort Frolic, and so have to work to make up the difference. Atlas might be a mechanic, or a fisherman. Jack finds that he’s strangely fascinated by this concept-- that he could have seen this man in passing on the street and not thought a single thing of it. 

A whooping shout from the crowd catches Atlas’s attention, and he turns with a smile to gesture at whoever called to him. He holds himself like someone who’s seen hundreds of fights just like this one: calm, collected, completely unfazed by the tense atmosphere. His dark hair curls over his forehead. Briefly Jack wonders if that will decrease his visibility as he fights, considers trying to play to that weakness-- but then Atlas’s eyes turn to him. 

Bright, icy blue. They’re sharp enough to be seen even at this distance, and Jack feels a shudder travel down his spine at their intensity.

“Fighters!” shouts the announcer in a booming voice. “Are you ready?”

The crowd answers for them, screaming and clapping and hollering half-formed phrases. Jack gives a tight nod to the ref, and Atlas does the same (albeit more casually). 

“Round one begins in three…” 

All around him, the air becomes palpable with the promise of imminent violence. Jack readies himself and checks the fastenings of his gloves one more time.

“Two…”

Arms up, feet shoulder length apart. Atlas mirrors the movement across from him, sliding into it easily. He fights southpaw, with his right leg and arm leading, as opposed to Jack’s left-leading orthodox stance.

“One…”

Never mind whatever disadvantages he has. Now, he needs to _focus._

“And _begin!”_

The crowd erupts into cheers even as both fighters stay more or less stationary. It’s never good form to rush into a bout, and for this one in particular, that rings doubly true. Jack clenches his jaw as he waits for Atlas to make the first move. Perhaps it’s the coward’s way out, but he’d rather be cautious than lose within the opening minute.

Atlas, it seems, begins by doing the same. They slowly approach each other in ever-tightening circles, eyes locked, every step deliberately placed. A low murmur starts up around them as the tension builds.

Out of the corner of his eye Jack catches the twist of an ankle, and he weaves out of the way just as the first punch is thrown. It’s casual, without much power behind it: a test more than anything. Atlas hardly seems bothered that it had been a miss.

Then comes another several moments later, and this time, Jack dodges to the outside. With his opponent fighting southpaw, it’s easiest to find an opening here-- and he does. Using his front foot, he slides forward and brings his dominant right hand in for a hook. It connects, and only just, but the extra strength behind it ensures that Atlas’s head jolts to the side from the hit. The crowd hisses along with him, albeit in anger instead of pain. When he takes a step back, there’s a small nick at his jaw where the knuckles caught. 

_First blood._ Jack allows himself the briefest of smiles. 

The rest of the first round continues in much the same vein. Though his punch had been the first to connect, they trade blows near equally for all of five minutes. Atlas catches him across the side of the head, the ribs, the chest; Jack manages the same. Their stances work as near perfect mirrors to one another. Jack has gone up against southpaw fighters before, and so he likes to think his disadvantage isn’t quite as significant as someone less experienced. His impressive speed for his class helps him pivot more easily out of the way of Atlas’s blows. 

Round two, however, quickly proves to be a different story. Just as Jack has grown more comfortable as the match continues, apparently so too has Atlas. He takes more risks, and is willing to leave himself open for longer periods of time if it means getting in a blow of his own. Jack finds his focus narrowing even further as he tries to keep up. 

He guards against several jabs, forced onto his back foot. He twists at the waist to avoid a left-handed punch and brings his right arm in for a jab to the chest. He manages to step out of the way to avoid a retaliating blow. When he closes the gap between them again, however, Atlas shifts his weight back and brings a foot up, catching Jack just below the ribcage.

Naturally, the crowd is delighted by the sudden curve into more aggressive tactics. They cheer as Jack stumbles backwards against the edge of the ring, bracing himself, head lowered as he takes a few precious breaths. 

Both he and Atlas are bleeding in equal measure now as well, the red standing out starkly against their skin. Jack has to blink furiously to keep it from dripping into his eyes. An ache is starting to spread from his hands outwards, traveling up his arms and settling over his shoulders. It’s a pleasant ache, all things considered-- but he can’t bask in it yet. Not until the match is behind him.

Steeling himself, he looks up just in time to see Atlas striding towards him, confident as ever. Strange, how the man still appears so casual, even as Jack can see the muscle coiling beneath his skin as he prepares another blow. All that violence carefully controlled and redirected with incredible accuracy.

Jack pushes himself forward and adopts his usual stance. Despite the beginnings of exhaustion seeping into his bones, he remains light on his feet with his hands at the ready. Will it be a jab, or a hook? Atlas seems equally fond of both while avoiding crosses or kicks. Jack has seen him fight now; he’s prepared.

The right hand comes forward: a jab. It’s simple to sidestep to his right to avoid, pivoting his body with the motion--

But then Atlas twists even further. He shifts and brings his left arm across to catch Jack at the shoulder, pushing him back. There’s barely a second to process what’s happened before another jab is thrown, again from the right, that hits Jack’s cheekbone with a _crack._

More shouting erupts from the crowd, half coherent phrases made even harder to understand with how Jack’s head is now ringing. He manages to keep his feet under him, but only barely. A few steps turn him so that his back is no longer facing the ropes, and as he stumbles, he glances down to get a better read on Atlas’s body language. 

Their stances are no longer mirrored. His stomach drops as the meaning of that sinks in: Atlas is a switch-hitter.

Surprise runs through Jack like lightning before he’s able to suppress it. Of course he’s _heard_ of switch-hitters before, but he’s never fought one before. Now the fight has decidedly shifted into entirely new territory. And to add insult to injury, Atlas seems far too pleased with this sudden turn of events.

Now in orthodox stance, he extends his left arm and leg just as Jack does. His head tilts to the side ever so slightly, the flash of a smile gracing his features. His hand curls in a come hither motion.

Someone in the sea of people calls out, the words lost in the din. Slowly, all the discordant noise organizes itself into a single, repeated chant:

“Atlas! Atlas! Atlas!”

Atlas’s smile grows to a grin, and he wastes no time in advancing on Jack like a shark scenting blood. 

The next minute of the fight passes like lightning and yet, at the same time, slow enough to be painful. After growing used to combating the southpaw maneuvers, Jack is forced to change mid-match. He’s a more versatile fighter than most, but such a jarring difference is enough to set anyone back on their heels. 

There’s also the pain that’s slowly tightening its grip on him, burning in his legs and arms as he throws punch after punch. There are as many misses as hits now; he’s losing his advantage. Jack finds it hard to recover his balance in the wake of each strike. Atlas looks just as worn down, but his movements don’t reflect it nearly as much. Maybe it’s his experience, or the way his fighting style distributes bodily exertion, or simply the support of a crowd at his back. 

No matter its cause, it eventually, inevitably provides him with the leverage he needs.

A well-aimed kick to Jack’s shin-- just as he moves to plant his weight, no less-- causes him to lose his balance. His back hits the mat and knocks the wind right out of him, blood pounding in his ears and mouth open, brain working frantically to force his body to comply.

Atlas is on top of him before he can even move. There’s a _thud_ as his knees land on either side of Jack’s hips, arms coming down for a submission hold. In a last ditch effort, Jack brings his own arms upwards and wraps them around Atlas’s neck.

His grip jerks them close together, and for a second, it seems to catch his opponent off-guard. The blue eyes mere inches from his own go wide in surprise; Jack swears he can hear the grinding of teeth as Atlas fights to counteract his hold. Blood and sweat smears across their chests and arms, the smell of it sharp and metallic in the enclosed space.

Predictably, Jack’s fatigue ends up getting the better of him. He lets up and moves to shift his grip, palm slipping over the nape of Atlas’s neck-- but then an arm fights its way out from between their bodies and wraps itself around the back of Jack’s own neck, palm flat on the floor beneath. It makes him jerk upwards in surprise, instinct causing him to struggle against the sudden restriction of his airflow.

Atlas, of course, senses the weakness. He rolls his hips to the side, pinning Jack at the waist, skin against skin. It sends a flare of something hot up his spine, so quick he nearly misses it, but it turns his tongue thick in his mouth and his movements even more erratic. He can’t think straight, he can’t figure out how to--

All it takes is the tilt of a head and his left arm is forced upwards against his face, cutting off his circulation even further. An arm triangle choke, perfectly executed and with potentially devastating results.

The slow, crushing pressure of Atlas’s weight bears down. “Yield,” he grates out. It’s the first time he’s spoken since stepping into the ring.

Jack draws in a labored breath and attempts to shake his head. The grip tightens, forcing them closer, closer, until spots begin to dance in front of his eyes. He wonders if Atlas can feel his heart pounding in his chest.

He’s on the verge of unconsciousness when he finally raises one wavering hand and taps it once, twice, against his opponent’s bare back. 

“Submission!” shouts the ref, and the resulting cheers are loud enough to be a near tangible force. 

The hold on him relaxes and allows Jack to draw several greedy lungfuls of air. His vision is still faint, a situation which is not at all improved by the blinding lights above him, nor the persistent pounding in his skull. He can feel the rise and fall of Atlas’s chest, heaving for breath, against his. It takes a moment for the man to get his bearings before sitting up. 

Blessedly, Atlas is in the perfect position to block out the glare, his cool shadow falling over Jack like an eclipse. His hair is plastered to his forehead and blood is already growing tacky on his skin. It’s with a strange, almost dreamlike interest that Jack notices the cut above his brow, the smudge beneath his nose, the red between his teeth as lips part to draw in a breath. 

Then Atlas moves to stand. The motion causes another sudden jolt of _something_ in the pit of Jack’s stomach. He half-stifles a gasp and curls his legs inwards, knees bent, as he looks down and _realizes._

He’s hard. Not enough to be obvious at a distance, nor even close up, but someone perceptive enough would surely notice. Say, the man currently standing over him, waving his arm in a gesture of thanks as his victory is met with more applause.

A brilliant flush spreads from Jack’s face downwards, reaching as far as his chest; he can only pray that, under all the blood and sweat, the change isn’t apparent. Another, equally frantic part of him prays that he might be capable of sinking into the floor and disappearing from sight. Surely there’s a number of reasons for this-- adrenaline, endorphins, a warm body against his own-- but he doesn’t exactly relish the thought of having to explain himself. Not to his opponent, to the referee, and least of all to the spectators. They have enough reason to heckle him as it is.

He gets one arm beneath him and tilts his head back to see Atlas looking down at him. A flash of burning hot _shame_ ignites in Jack's gut. Briefly, the man’s gaze flickers across the length of his body-- but before Jack has time to react, their eyes are meeting again and Atlas is… smiling? It’s not disdainful or mocking, not meant to intimidate. It’s softer than expected, every bit as casual and comfortable as he’d been at the match’s start.

Instead, Atlas steps forward and extends a hand to help him up. “Well fought, lad,” he says. “You nearly had me for a minute there.” He speaks with a lilt that Jack hadn’t noticed from the single, growled syllable he’d heard during the match. It sounds almost musical. 

Fighting the urge to flush even further, Jack hesitantly returns that smile and reaches up.

And so ends his first match at McDonagh’s. Not an easy one, by any means, but despite his lingering embarrassment, Jack finds himself mostly pleased with the result. He’d managed to hold his own against the venue’s most respected fighter. Even Mr. Fontaine seems to be in good spirits when he calls that night. 

_Not that you didn’t get your ass handed to you, kid,_ he says, _but at least you made an impression. People have their eyes on you now._

A strangely bolstering sentiment, especially coming from his caretaker. Jack is more than a little shell-shocked by it all, but takes it as a good sign that maybe-- just maybe-- this new arrangement won’t be as bad as it had initially seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: Please forgive any mistakes I might make with the rules/terminology of boxing. It's a very sexy sport, but I know only what Google tells me. <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onto chapter two! We've got some training, some pining, and Jack being gay and lonely. Enjoy!

After his opening match, visiting McDonagh’s becomes less of a dreaded event. Though the customers and other fighters still don’t speak much to him as he continues his training, their silence doesn’t feel quite as cold as before. 

“Was hopin’ I’d run into you here eventually.”

Jack pauses in wrapping his knuckles and turns to face his unusual visitor. From that voice, he can already tell who it will be. 

Even so, he feels almost awkward meeting Atlas’s eyes again. The last time they’d been face to face had been the end of their match, and… well. Clearing his throat, Jack asks, “Have you been looking for me?”

He winces inwardly as soon as the words leave his mouth. _What kind of way is that to introduce yourself to someone?_ It’s unlikely the man even knows his name, considering Jack has been listed on the roster as “Fontaine’s fighter.” He should’ve offered a handshake or something, like how he’d learned at those fancy parties, where he’d plaster a smile to his face for hours and do nothing but thank people for their support. 

Atlas’s smile, in comparison, is far more genuine than those of Jack’s past. “Sure have. I wasn’t lyin’ when I said you nearly had me durin’ that match. I’ve been lookin’ for you ever since, but our schedules must not match up.”

Jack blinks in surprise. He hadn’t realized he’d made such an impression. Again, his mind flashes to the outcome of their fight, and he has to wave the thought away with no small amount of exasperation. “You fought well, yourself,” he replies. It’s an honest compliment. He tries to soften his expression to reflect that; his whole face feels like it’s frozen in a permanent, comical mask of surprise.

“Why, thank you.” Atlas’s confidence seems to cave just a bit then, shifting into something more like humility. “I’m sure I had an advantage, though,” he admits, “what with you bein’ new an’ all.”

The bartender he’d spoken to on his first visit comes to mind. _You’re the_ new _kid, ain’t you?_ “It… hasn’t been easy,” he agrees.

“Can’t imagine so. But you’re a fine fighter, an’ nowhere near posh enough for people to hold a lastin’ grudge.” 

Jack snorts at that. “Losing to you seems to have made me more palatable, too.” 

It isn’t meant as an insult, and luckily, Atlas doesn’t take it as such. He laughs, loud and clear, seemingly delighted. “I won’t argue with that,” he says. “Aye, that definitely added points in your favor. Maybe it’s backwards, but I doubt anyone would’ve let you back in here if you’d beaten me right out the gates.” 

Atlas crosses his arms, head tilted, and pauses for a moment with a considering look on his face. Unsure of how to continue the conversation, Jack simply stands there and thinks of the bandages trailing half-done from his open palms. 

Then, as if deciding on something, Atlas gives him a resolute nod. “Mind if I join you…?” He trails off, eyebrows raised expectantly.

It takes a moment for his meaning to register. “Oh! Ah, it’s Jack.” When they shake hands, Jack is quick to notice the roughness of the palm against his, the calluses at the fingertips, more numerous than even his own. Definitely the working class, just as he’d guessed. “You want to train with me?”

“Just cause you lost don’t mean you’re useless, boyo. I figure we could teach each other a few things.” Atlas smiles again, this time with the hint of an edge to it. “We can start by workin’ on those submission holds.”

It takes nearly all of Jack’s willpower to avoid sputtering out some incoherent response to that. The mortification must show on his face, because Atlas is quick to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder with one heavy hand. “Jus’ gimme a second to change.”

To his surprise, he finds himself enjoying the training session that follows. Not that Atlas has been anything less than kind, but he’d expected things to be more than a little awkward after their match. On the contrary, it’s the exact opposite. 

Age does seem to indicate experience; even in the mere several hours they spend together, Atlas is able to teach him much. How to avoid the arm triangle choke, for one. It turns out to be much easier in theory than he’d realized. In the ring, of course, is an entirely different story, with exhaustion and intimidation and the time limit all factoring in. At least now he feels just a bit closer to being prepared to fight someone like Atlas in the ring a second time.

It isn’t until weeks into this routine-- the two of them showing up after dark, training, talking, and going their separate ways-- that Jack realizes just how little he’s interacted with his fellow fighters. Not just in McDonagh’s, but throughout _all_ of his career. His stance as Mr. Fontaine’s ward, as well as his breadwinner, had always placed a wall between himself and the other competitors. The personal trainer back Fort Frolic had been the closest thing to a colleague he’d had. Even then, the man had been someone paid to spend time with him, and that had shown in their stilted relationship. 

This, though… this more-or-less easy conversation, this trading of technique and information, is entirely different. And Jack _likes_ it. 

“No, no-- you’re _faster_ ’n that. I know you are.” 

From where he’s lying face down on the mat, his grimace probably isn’t visible. Jack does anyway. “Maybe if you gave me half a second to think, I wouldn’t have so much trouble,” he shoots back.

“But that’s the _point,_ lad.” Atlas watches him push himself to his feet, hands on his hips in what Jack has taken to calling his “mentor stance." Only in his head, of course; he doesn’t think their relationship has quite progressed that far. “In the ring, people don’t give you a second to think,” the man continues, “an’ you need to be able to just react. That’s what stopped you from succeedin’ last time.”

 _And every time since,_ Jack notes with a hint of bitterness. His training has been going well, sure-- but that doesn’t mean Atlas has been easy on him. They’re still focusing on submission holds, and he still hasn’t been able to pin Atlas even a single time. There’s no question that it has to do with his focus. That much they can agree on.

Still, the issue baffles him to no end. Jack has won matches via submission before; he’s won them by pinning men before, too. With Atlas though, he can never quite manage it. Part of it, he’s sure, has to do with experience and muscle memory, as always. But there’s another part of it that lies distinctly elsewhere. 

When Atlas steps forward, sinking into a fighting stance as he does so, the smile he proffers is stunning. It’s still a uniquely heart-stopping feeling to be pinned by that gaze.

 _Elsewhere, indeed,_ Jack thinks. Then, trying desperately to keep his mind focused, he readies himself for another attempt. 

This time, he does manage to get a bit closer. He’s able to pin Atlas beneath him after a well placed kick to the ribs, but just as he moves in to execute the hold, the other man throws his weight and turns the both of them over. It takes a long scuffle, but eventually Jack taps a hand in submission.

“Better,” Atlas says as he sits back on his heels. He wipes a hand across his brow and grins. “You didn’t freeze up that time.” 

“And it’s only taken me a near hundred tries.” Jack props himself up on his elbows, grimacing as the sheen of sweat on his back comes away from the cold floor.

“Shall we try for another?”

“Of course.”

Fighting Atlas, despite its obvious difficulties and other baggage, is far more relaxing than his training has ever been with anyone else. The familiar, encouraging way Jack is guided to pivot his body like this, or shift his grip like that, has him eagerly hanging onto every word. 

He’ll need all the help he can get if he wants to improve. His next match is a month from now, and he aims to be properly prepared this time. 

When they finish up for the evening, Jack feels at least a _bit_ more confident and a lot more relaxed: training always leaves him with a dull ache in his muscles, a numbness that persists well after he’s hung up his gloves. In the locker room, he rolls his shoulders and breathes deep in time with the pain. Atlas does the same.

“Don’ worry,” the man tells him. “We’ll have you in ship shape in no time.”

There’s a question that’s been lingering in Jack’s mind for some time now. Part of him just wants to ask it outright: Why would Atlas bother investing so much time in the training of a stranger-- and what’s more, in that of a potential rival? 

But he already knows how rude that would come across. Instead, all he says is, “I certainly hope so.”

Jack hasn’t ever really been one to question his skill. Perhaps that seems conceited, and surely it would if he said it out loud-- but he prefers to think of it as pragmatic. He knows his strengths well, and he has many. He also knows his weaknesses. Ever since his fight with Atlas, though, he’s found himself thinking more and more of the latter.

He does so that night as he walks back to his flat, after he and Atlas have parted. He does the next day when they’re training again. He thinks of how, despite the bizarrely positive call he’d gotten from Fontaine after his loss, he had no trouble reading between the lines: _don’t make this a habit._

Maybe that’s why, even on his off day, Jack finds himself back at McDonagh’s-- and for once, not to train.

It’s a Saturday, meaning despite the lack of a match, the bar is fairly crowded. Jack is hit with a veritable wall of sound as soon as he steps across its threshold. Immediately, he’s smiling; now that McDonagh’s has warmed to him somewhat, it’s hard not to fall under its infectious spell. The clinking of glasses and muffled conversation and laughter is like an off-kilter song. 

He’s about to sit down at the bar with his drink when a voice cuts through all the noise.

“Well, well. Look who it is!”

Seeing Atlas outside the well-worn boundaries of the ring and their practice regimen leaves Jack all but speechless. Even so, the warmth in the man’s smile forces him to stutter out an awkward reply. “I-I didn’t think you’d be here.”

God in heaven. What he’d meant was, _I didn’t think you’d be here on your rest day._ Or maybe, _I didn’t think you’d be here at the same time as I just happened to come in for a single drink, before leaving to sit in my flat by myself._ But now that he’s stopped halfway, he doesn’t know how to correct himself, and oh, he is far too sober for this kind of small talk.

But Atlas’s smile never wavers. “Nor did I, truthfully,” he admits, “but if you’d like to join our group, we’re at the far table, just there.” He gestures to a group of a few other men, half of them watching their conversation avidly from afar. Already Jack can feel the nerves prickling under his skin.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I’m not sure people have warmed to me _quite_ that much.”

“Ahh, to hell with that. They won’t get a word in-- not while I’m around.”

Jack smiles, and worries that he’s clutching his glass just a bit too tight. “Alright,” he says at length. “If you say so.”

The night that follows is… well, it’s far from casual, but it isn’t what Jack had feared either. Everyone in the group is at least cordial with him, and one of them-- Peterson, Atlas had called him-- is downright friendly. Jack nearly spills his whiskey twice as he’d gone to take a sip just as the man’s hand had landed on his shoulder. It’s a bit like conversing with a slightly smaller, slightly less hairy grizzly bear-- if the taxidermied one from Fontaine’s suite is anything to go by.

“Why’d you come down to Rapture then, son?” Peterson asks him at one point. 

“Ah, well-- I don’t exactly know.” Jack taps a rhythm out on the tabletop with his fingers. “I _was_ born Topside, but I hardly remember any of it. I wasn’t even five years old when I came down.”

A few of the others make sounds of amazement. Only one of them looks like he could be in his mid-twenties, close to Jack’s age-- meaning Jack just might be the youngest person present.

“Let’s pray that you remember the _sky_ at least,” says another-- Sutherland, he thinks? That gets a murmur of agreement from the group.

Jack nods. “I do. It was, um...” Reaching this far back in his memory is strange. What he can remember is almost impressionistic, and even then, it feels impossible to describe. “It was very blue,” he finishes lamely. “Most of the time.”

Peterson laughs, and Jack braces himself for another clap on the back that (fortunately) never comes. “Well, you’re not wrong,” he agrees. “I suppose the rest of us remember it a might bit clearer than that, though. Oi, Atlas,” he says as he turns, “you ever seen a blue sky?”

Atlas’s face is partially hidden by the rim of his glass, but he raises his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed. “As if you did in Southampton, smug bastard,” he says once he’s taken a drink.

“Alright, alright, _touché.”_

All the good-natured ribbing goes a long way to soothe Jack’s nerves. Perhaps that’s why he finds himself interrupting the conversation of his own accord, which draws everyone’s attention immediately. “Why _did_ you come to Rapture then, Atlas?” Jack asks, “If not for the better weather?”

The laugh that ripples through the group lifts a weight from his chest-- as does the grin Atlas levels his way. With an exasperated hand wave, he says, “Not even anythin’ as specific as that, unlike what _these_ boys would have you believe.” He shrugs. “Just didn’t have much to keep me back in Dublin. My folks had passed, an’ I was still young. No more’n eighteen. I didn’t have anyone else, so I took good old Andrew Ryan’s offer.”

Jack nods. He supposes that’s the story of most people who’d come to Rapture; not all of them could have grand tales of artistic vision or scientific prowess like Ryan preached about in all his PSAs. Truth be told, Jack feels as though he might be unhappy if he’d been brought to the city for a greater purpose such as that. 

They’re all just here to live. Nothing more.

His musings are interrupted as the group’s conversation barrels onwards. “So you ain’t got no one Topside,” says Fredricks, eyes narrowed with his grin, “but what about down ‘ere?”

Atlas groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not this again.”

Of course, his reluctance only spurs everyone else on even further. “When’s the last time you saw any action, eh Atlas?”

“None a’ your goddamn business, Peterson, an’ don’t think I won’t box your ears for askin’.”

Jack gets an elbow to his ribs and nearly jumps straight out of his skin. A voice in his ear says, “He wouldn’t have to if he bothered to look for a lady friend.”

_“Peterson.”_

“I’m just saying!”

“What about that McClintock woman?” Macready chimes in. “What’s her name?”

 _“McClintock woman._ Christ, if chivalry isn’t dead. Her name is Diane.”

“Yeah, yeah. She’s always flittin’ around after a match. I think she fancies you.”

With every word, Jack’s heart sinks. Of course Atlas would be interested in women-- why wouldn’t he? It’s not like he should have expected otherwise. Although he had-- he had _hoped._ Perhaps it had been presumptuous of him, but with all the time they’d been spending together, even just through training, he’d thought that maybe… well. 

No use thinking any more on it now; the last thing he wants is to look suddenly morose in the midst of all these people. He shakes himself mentally and tries tuning back into the conversation with at least _some_ amount of decorum.

“--spent time on more than just working and training.”

“Well how else am I supposed to--”

“I think it’s admirable,” Jack says abruptly. Seconds later he finds himself praying that a flush has risen to his cheeks, what with how everyone has turned their attention his way. “T-That is,” he tries to explain, “Boxing is an awfully rigorous sport. And on top of that you have to work, of course. So the amount of time you put into honing your skills is...” He takes a deep breath, his gaze flicking Atlas’s way. Those blue eyes are watching him so _closely._ “Is admirable,” Jack finishes. “That’s what I ah, meant.”

The beat of silence that follows has his heart pounding in his chest. But then Atlas grins at him, reaches out to wrap one hand around Jack’s upper arm and squeezes.

“Well, at least _someone_ is in my corner,” he says. When he turns away, Jack feels as though he’s been released from a spell. “Unlike the rest a’ you sorry lot!”

“Oh fuck off, of course the rookie sides with you!”

Jack breathes a sigh of relief as the table erupts with noise again. Fortunately from that point on the conversation moves to things he’s more comfortable discussing: namely, boxing, and Atlas’s match that’s coming up early the next week. Talking strategy comes far easier to him than anything else, and it’s easy to forget his nerves. 

In no time at all, an hour or so has passed. A few of the men say their goodbyes and head home; several of them, including Atlas, are still left when Jack decides to take his leave.

“Good talking with you all,” he says politely.

“Anytime, son.”

“Yeah, good to see you.”

“Lucky I dragged you over here,” Atlas tells him, “otherwise you’d’ve sat over there all by your lonesome.” 

Jack smiles. “You’re probably right,” he admits. “Thanks.”

He goes to pay his tab, and a chorus of shouts follow him out through the door. Atlas’s words linger with him even when McDonagh’s has long faded from sight.

Deep as it is in the ocean, there isn’t much a difference outside Rapture’s windows between day and night. Only the dim lamplight in the streets gives the indication of dusk, casting a warm glow over the cobblestone, deep shadows gathering in the grooves. By the time he nears his front door, there’s more groove than stone, really. He has to watch not to twist his ankle as he pulls out his keys.

Inside, his place is a bit musty, but not as bad as when he’d first moved in. It’s all very spartan, one could say: a worn couch, a rather deflated recliner in the corner, a table and some chairs in the kitchen. He’s not sure how long the place had sat empty before he came along, but judging by the moths he’d found eating his blankets in the first week, he’s inclined to assume it had been a while. 

_You’d think Fontaine could’ve shelled out a little more,_ he thinks as he stands in his living room. It hadn’t bothered him initially-- and truth be told, he’d still rather have better supplies for his training-- but he _is_ willing to admit that this is all a bit… depressing.

Jack sighs. Now that he’s alone with his thoughts, there’s nothing stopping him from falling down the rabbit hole of what-ifs. He doesn’t think he has the resilience to resist them for long.

“I should sleep,” he says into the silence. 

With nothing better to do, he does exactly that. If he dreams, it’s only fleeting, and in the quiet morning that follows, he can recall nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww I've been waiting for this one! We've got some newcomers in this chapter, folks. >:^) Enjoy!

The next time he visits McDonagh’s on his off day, it’s for an infinitely more important reason than wallowing.

Atlas’s matches draw a crowd no matter who he’s fighting. It had been a wild one on the night of his match against Jack, and this one is no different, albeit a bit smaller. Far more people want to see a rich newcomer get the snot beaten out of him than a lesser-known, far more middle-class fighter. All the same, when Jack takes his seat in the stands, the current running through the room is just as palpable.

Unfortunately, he’d only had the briefest of moments to talk to Atlas before the match. Jack had arrived a bit late-- Fontaine had called, wanting to arrange dinner plans for that night after the match, and of course he couldn’t very well tell the man to _ hurry up. _ Once he’d finally made it to the tavern, Atlas had been swarmed with excited spectators, and they were only able to exchange a few words. Still, it was worth it to see his mentor smile and nod in return to his call of, “Good luck!”

“Fighters! Are you ready?”

The crowd cheers in unison with Atlas as he gives his confirmation to the ref. Jack can picture it so clearly, despite being far enough back that Atlas is partially obscured by the heads and shoulders in front of him. He can feel himself tensing along with both men in the ring as they ready their stances.

“First round in three, two, one-- and  _ begin!”  _

Right out of the gate, the challenger is far more aggressive than Jack had been in his place. He wastes no time in stepping forward and striking out, forcing Atlas on the defensive. Not too bad an opening; Atlas is a cautious fighter anyway, especially at the start of a match, so he seems unfazed. He dodges most strikes and deflects the rest, his shoulders set.

It takes about a round or two before things start to really heat up. For all its heavy-hitting and quick footwork, boxing is most often a waiting game. As an inexperienced fighter, Jack had been sometimes frustrated by this; it was easy to get antsy while waiting for your opponent to move. Atlas keeps his cool with ease, albeit taking a few hits throughout the first several bouts. By the third, he’s clearly limbered up. Jack can see the shift in his stance as he prepares to go on the offensive.

By round four, the men are about equally matched, stringing the crowd along on tenterhooks. Atlas even takes a particularly nasty hit to the ribs which has him stumbling briefly and the crowd hissing in sympathy. 

By round five, however, the inevitable happens: Atlas’s opponent begins to waver.

Jack feels a small spark of pride at being able to predict this outcome. For all the man’s strength and energy, he’d started out too fast, and had kept up the same pace until now, most likely in the hopes that it would wear Atlas down, forcing him to be hyper-vigilant. What had happened instead was just the opposite: all the frenzied movement had allowed Atlas to bide his time. Now he strikes out with one jab, two, pressing forward until he’s got the man up against the ropes. 

There’s a brief scuffle as his adversary tries to course correct with a step forward and a wild swing to Atlas’s left side. Unfortunately, it leaves him wide open on the right-- the perfect timing for Atlas to put all his force into a powerful right cross.

Instantly, the man goes down, and the crowd erupts.

Atlas dances back a few steps, watching as closely as any keen predator. Though his opponent is still conscious, it’s clear that he’s struggling to rise to his feet again. The referee counts out, “One, two, three,” until finally, “ten!”

The wave that rolls through the spectators as the bell rings is enough to set Jack’s heart pounding. He grins, shouts out calls of victory along with everyone else. Atlas stands triumphant at the rings center with one arm raised. Behind him, the other fighter finally has enough sense to rise to his knees, one glove gripping the ropes. 

Their handshake is hidden behind a sea of bodies as everyone stands up, either to cheer or to make a beeline for the exit, hoping to beat the majority of the crowd. As much as Jack wants to see Atlas right after the fight, he decides to hold back. He’ll do no good accosting his mentor on the way to the locker room.

If the thunderous footsteps above are anything to go by, word has spread and the celebration has already started. Waiting up by the bar seems like as good a bet as any.

People watching after a match is something Jack has really come to enjoy. Swirling his drink thoughtfully, he lets his eye drift around the room: friends sharing rounds, couples deep in conversation, a particularly animated customer talking with a (clearly indifferent) bartender.

“How’d it go?” says the other bartender as he comes to refill Jack’s glass. 

“How do you think?” Jack asks with a grin. He’s too immersed in the tavern’s atmosphere to worry about how it comes across-- and judging by the man’s amused expression, he doesn’t need to. 

“Jack!”

He turns to see Atlas fighting his way through the crowd to reach him. He has a tough time of it: every few feet someone stops him with a pat on the back or half-formed, drunken praise. Once he finally reaches Jack, he’s nearly out of breath.

_ “Here  _ you are,” he says warmly. “Glad I didn’t miss you.”

For once, Jack smiles back without another thought. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies. “You fought well out there.”

Atlas shrugs, all faux indifference. “Everyone seems to think so.” He has to fight to keep his face straight as he says it-- but it succeeds in coaxing a laugh out of Jack.

They sit down at the bar together, Atlas enduring a stream of admirers and more than a few friends. Peterson stops by for a quick chat, as does Sutherland. Mostly Jack is left to sit back and watch the great mass of humanity roll through the tavern, eddying around their champion fighter. He wants to talk more about the details of the match, but there’ll be plenty of time for that later. For now, he allows himself the briefest of moments to admire the growing bruise across Atlas’s jaw, the daub of blood at his mouth that he must’ve missed while washing up. His bottom lip is swollen where he’d been nicked with a punch. 

Jack clears his throat and throws back the rest of his whiskey. 

“Mind if I join you fellas? It won’t take but a moment.”

He turns with a bit of a start toward the sound of that voice: smooth as molasses, an easy Southern drawl. Before them stands a man who Jack could only describe as perfectly coiffed. Not a hair is out of place, dark and impeccably gelled, a touch of silver visible at his temples. He’s short, and soft-- that is, apart from his smile. Jack is rather reminded of the sharks he so often notices circling Rapture’s outer walls.

Atlas shoots a glare at their newest visitor. “In your dreams, Sinclair.”

Even while speaking, a smile never leaves the man-- Sinclair’s-- voice. “Oh, well I can promise you that, sport.”

Jack can feel his own face coloring at the insinuation-- and, to his utmost surprise, so does Atlas’s. “None a’ that,” says his mentor, crossing his arms over his chest. Perhaps in a bid to appear less flustered? “Any particular reason why you decided to come out here’n harass me right after a win?”

“Well,  _ because  _ of said win, naturally.” Sinclair glances at each of them in turn. “Who’s your friend?” he asks then, head still tilted towards Atlas.

“Jack, sir.” He reaches out and Sinclair accepts the handshake gracefully. “I’m new here. I used to fight in Fort Frolic.”

_ “That’s  _ right. Fontaine’s boy.” Despite his unthreatening appearance, it’s an anxiety-inducing feeling to have Sinclair’s eyes rove over his body. Like he’s being appraised. “You’re a damn good fighter yourself, from what I’ve seen,” Sinclair says, flashing yet another smile. “Too bad Frank got his hands on you first.” 

“Ah--” Jack sort of feels as though he’s become dumbstruck. What is anyone supposed to  _ say  _ to keep up with this man? “Th-thank you. I think.”

With that, Sinclair sets his sights on Atlas once more. “So, I’ve come with a proposition.”

“No.”

“Stubborn as a mule, as always.” He looks genuinely put out as he says it, too. “Will you at least hear me out this time? I’m thinkin’ I might have an offer that’s a bit more... agreeable to your conditions.”

Atlas doesn’t say a word. But after a moment, he does wave a hand in encouragement.

“Now, I know you don’t want nothin’ with bein’ sponsored, by myself or any other man. And if that’s how you’d like to keep it, fine. But--” Sinclair leans forward conspiratorially. “I  _ do  _ have arrangements for a prize-winning bout in Fort Frolic within the next several months. And I’d like you to fight Delta.”

_ “Delta?”  _ The word leaves Jack’s mouth before he can stop it. “Johnny Topside himself?”

Sinclair nods. “The one and only, kid.”

“That would be...” Jack is almost at a loss for words. “That would be  _ incredible,” _ he settles on, even though that is woefully inadequate in describing just how eager he is to see such a fight. Delta is the only boxer in Rapture with a perfect record, and for good reason: his sheer size and unshakeable stature make him an incredibly difficult fighter to wear out. He also has an uncanny knack for honing in on someone’s weak point and striking it with painful accuracy. It’s no wonder his name is so famous-- and that a man like Sinclair is the sponsor behind him. 

“An’ you’re tellin’ me this why?” Atlas asks. He seems a bit more receptive now, but no less wary. “What’s in it for you?”

“Well, publicity, for one thing. And more money than you could shake a stick at-- for me, at least. But you’d certainly make a fair share yourself. Plus,” he adds, “you’d get a chance to knock some of Rapture’s elite off their high horses. Even just by agreein’ to the match...” Here, Sinclair leans in, his grin widening. “But,” he says, “even more so if you  _ win.”  _

It’s just about the best offer Jack’s heard in all his years of boxing-- and by far the most  _ dangerous.  _ Losing to Delta would be more likely an outcome, even with Atlas’s skill and experience. No doubt everyone betting on the match would think so, too. That means winning would result in an absolute uproar. 

Atlas seems to mull all this over, brow furrowed. He doesn’t deny the request right away, which has Sinclair watching him eagerly. After a pause, though, all he says is, “I’ll consider it.”

Sinclair clasps his hands together. “Good enough for me,” he replies, totally unfazed. “Who knows-- maybe we’ll make a star out of you yet.”

That comment earns him a scoff, which he obviously ignores. With a handshake for each of them-- and a wink Jack’s way that has him tongue-tied all over again-- he turns to take his leave. “You know how to reach me, Atlas,” he calls over his shoulder, just before the crowd swallows him up.

Both of them sit in relative silence for a brief moment. “Well,” Jack starts, when he doesn’t know how else to broach the topic, “that was... interesting.”

Atlas sighs. “You don’t know the half of it. That man’s been trying to get under my skin for years now.” He returns to his drink, looking resigned. “Among other things,” he mutters under his breath.

Immediately Jack can feel his heart quicken his pace. “Is that so?”

“Well, you saw him. He’s not exactly...” Atlas hesitates. “... subtle, I would say.”

“No,” Jack replies faintly. “No, I suppose not.” And then, because he’s not certain he can handle following this line of thought and retain his sanity, he pointedly changes the subject. “I didn’t know people from Fort Frolic ever came around here,” he comments. “Apart from me, I suppose.”

Atlas nods. “You’d be surprised.” Looking around like he’s afraid of being overheard, he leans in and adds, “To be honest, some of the blokes here are higher up than they’d like to admit.”

“Really?”

“Aye. They just do an awfully good job of blendin’ in.” Atlas snorts. “Apart from Sinclair, that is. But he’s never been concerned about all a’ that.”

Fascinated, Jack shakes his head in disbelief. Even at the bottom of the ocean, he couldn’t quite believe how much weight people put on birthright-- with his upbringing though, perhaps he doesn’t really have much room to talk. 

Atlas’s words do dredge up something from deep in his memory. “You know,” he says, “Mr. Fontaine mentioned that to me once, when I was younger, I think. That some of the higher ups came to places like this to feel like ‘one of the people’, or something along those lines.”

“To  _ exploit _ the people, more like.” Atlas rolls his eyes as he takes another drag from his pint. “Some of them are at least upfront about it. But most of them aren’t.” Then he pauses. “Hang on,” he says, “When you were younger, you said? How long have you fought with Fontaine?”

“Ah, right.” Jack hadn’t thought about how his situation wasn’t always common knowledge-- at least, not outside of Fontaine’s inner circle. “Mr. Fontaine raised me,” he explains. “Adopted me Topside and brought me down here. I’ve lived with him until-- well, until moving to Pauper’s Drop, actually.”

No wonder he’s got such a hold on your sponsorship,” Atlas muses.

Jack can’t exactly argue with that, so he doesn’t bother. “I’m used to it by now, really,” he says with a shrug.

But why does it sound like an excuse more than anything?

Then something dawns on him-- a lightning strike that cuts through all else. “Wait,” he says suddenly. “What time is it?”

Atlas checks his watch. “Half past five. Why?”

_ “Shit.”  _ Jack practically jumps from his seat.  _ The meeting.  _ “I promised Mr. Fontaine I’d meet him for dinner up in Olympus Heights,” he explains as Atlas watches quizzically. “I didn’t expect to get so-- so caught up here.”

“Ahh. Well that’s hardly your fault, lad. Sinclair did sort of through a wrench into things.”

“He did, didn’t he?” Jack agrees with a laugh. Even so, he can feel a bit of a nervous jitter taking up residence in his limbs. Fontaine isn’t exactly keen on him being late to meetings like this. He’ll have to rush.

As he gathers up the last of his things, sliding some bills across the bar for his drink, he says to Atlas, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For having to-- to leave you so quickly. And after a win, no less.”

“Ahh, think nothin’ of it.” Atlas waves a hand at him with a smile. “Go. Don’t keep that man waitin’.”

With that, Jack is off. He’s distinctly bitter at being forced from the warmth of McDonagh’s atmosphere and out into Rapture’s cold streets once more. As he takes off down the sidewalk, headed for the metro line, he wonders how much he’ll end up missing back in the tavern. How many opportunities to see Atlas smile like he’s the very sun itself.

_ Never mind all that now,  _ he tells himself firmly. He only half succeeds.

Once he reaches the restaurant, a bit out of breath but hopefully presentable, his mind is on far more pressing things. Like how this will be the first time he’s seen and spoken to Fontaine in person since he’d moved out. How he doesn’t know exactly what the meeting is for _ \--  _ and with his guardian it  _ is _ always  _ for  _ something. He forces himself to take a deep breath as he steps through the doors of the Kashmir. 

Inside, the place is nothing but red: the carpets, the walls, even some of the lighting, all of it reflecting the glint of a million gilded light fixtures. The only contrast is the huge, floor-to-ceiling window to his left, just past the second floor balcony. The murky depths of the ocean are visible beyond. Before it, the base resting below on the first floor, stands an immense statue of a man with the Earth on his shoulders.

_ Atlas,  _ Jack notes with a smile.

Fontaine is waiting for him at one of the back tables on the upper level. It’s tucked away against some drapes, muffling all sound, cocooning them in velvet. His sponsor’s tie is as bloody as the decor, standing out bright against the deep blue of his fitted suit.

“About time,” he says by way of greeting. “Sit down, kid.”

Jack does so without a word. Of course he’d ended up a bit late, with how far he had to come to get here, but only by a few minutes. Still, Fontaine is watching him with a faint air of disappointment already gracing his features.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he says. Better to be reverent in times like these. “I lost track of time.”

He forces himself to remain still under the man’s piercing gaze, as much as it pains him. After a long moment, though, Fontaine looks away, seemingly satisfied. “You’re taking a shine to that place, ain’t you?” he says at length.

“Well, I-- It’s not what I expected initially, but... I think that’s a good thing.” Jack almost winces as he remembers how cold McDonagh’s had been at first. “I’m much more comfortable there now.”

“Let’s hope that pays off in your next fight then, shall we?”

It’s a nonchalant comment at best, but Jack knows the intent behind it: yet another reminder of his responsibility as not just any fighter, but  _ Fontaine’s.  _ He has a reputation to uphold. 

At times, it makes Jack feel like  _ he’s  _ the real Atlas.

A waiter comes over to interrupt their conversation only briefly, taking their orders and exchanging pleasantries with Fontaine. The man knows everyone who works in these sorts of establishments; after all, it’s his job. Or part of it, at the very least: the Kashmir is one of the most popular venues for celebrating after a match held in Fort Frolic. Any sponsor worth a dime makes it their duty to be on the absolute best terms with the staff and management. 

Jack is of course a welcome and recognizable face here as well-- on the rare occasions he comes on his own, he pays barely anything-- but he’s only the fighter. He may be the one in the public eye, and the one in the ring, but he’s not exactly holding any of the cards. 

As they wait in stilted silence for their meal, the air between them filling with smoke from Fontaine’s cigar, Jack finally decides to speak up. “So why did you want to meet, exactly?”

His sponsor has the gall to actually look offended. “What, can’t a man check in with his charge every once in awhile? Just to see if you’re playin’ nice?”

“O-Of course,” Jack stammers, “but I suppose I... I suppose I just figured there was something pressing you needed to discuss.”

“Nah. There are a few potential deals in the works, but nothin’ concrete just yet.” Fontaine pauses to take another drag of smoke. “What  _ I  _ want to hear,” he says, “is how your training has been goin’. Your next match is in just over a week, ain’t it?”

It’s not as though Fontaine doesn’t already know all of this. Jack has never understood the man’s need to make him parrot words back, as though testing to make sure Jack is really listening. He wonders if Fontaine still sees him as the unassuming child he’d once been.

Something tells him that such a question would not be met favorably.

“Yes, next Saturday,” he agrees. “I’m fighting a Thomas Murphy. I don’t really know much about him, but from what I’ve heard at McDonagh’s he fights southpaw. He’s also more of a movement-based boxer. Atlas says I’d be better off trying to pin the man once I get a shot at it, otherwise I’ll never get another.”

“Hmm.” Fontaine nods as he takes all of this in. He’s done his own research on Jack’s opponent, certainly, but he wouldn’t have dared step foot in McDonagh’s himself. “And Atlas,” he says then, “his match tonight went well?”

“A knockout, actually.” Jack tries not to sound  _ too  _ proud as he says it. “It caused a pretty big stir. Someone even approached him about it afterwards.”

Instantly, he realizes that he’s said too much. The way Fontaine’s eyes snap to him in interest, cigar halfway to his parted lips, makes that crystal clear. “Oh? Who was it?”

There’s no use hiding it now. Feeling a bit guilty, Jack tells him: “Sinclair.”

“Of course,” Fontaine sneers. “Who else but that slimy bastard. Did he say what he wanted?” 

“He was looking to sponsor Atlas. It seemed like a conversation they’ve had before.”

“And I’m assumin’ he was declined?”

“Yes.” There’s no need to go into  _ great  _ detail on the conversation, so all Jack adds is, “Atlas didn’t seem particularly fond of the idea.”

More silence from Fontaine. Jack can practically hear him thinking through this new information, no doubt filing it away for future reference. Perhaps even for when he next has to deal with Sinclair. 

And because that silence feels like pulling teeth, Jack can’t help himself from breaking it. “I think that Atlas would do quite well in Fort Frolic, actually,” he says quietly.

It is the exact  _ wrong  _ thing to say.

“What, that  _ rube?”  _ Fontaine pins him with a look so cutting that Jack feels his heart stutter in his chest. “He’s good, kid, but look at him. He’d rather waste away in that sorry excuse for a pub than take an opportunity to make his whole career.” There’s a sharp  _ tap, tap  _ as still-hot ashes fall from the cigar onto the pristine tablecloth. “Fuckin’ pathetic, if you ask me.”

“Pathetic?” Jack can  _ feel  _ his hackles rise at that, and though he knows he shouldn’t take the obvious bait, he cannot stop himself. “What makes you think--”

“What makes  _ you  _ think,” Fontaine snaps at him, “that I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, kid?”

Jack falls silent. His pulse is hammering away in his throat, and both his hands fist themselves in the fabric of his slacks. By some miracle, he manages not to look away from those cold eyes, unwavering in their fury.

“Don’t ever _dare_ to lecture me like that again,” Fontaine says, and poison drips from every syllable.

It’s at that perfect moment that their food arrives: salmon with fancy garnish, arranged impeccably on bone-white china. The thought of eating now makes Jack a bit sick, but he forces himself to anyway. In part because he wouldn’t want to waste it-- and in part because he knows who’s footing the bill. Refusing now would practically be a death sentence.

The rest of their meal goes by without another word. Jack tries to steady himself by tuning in to the world around him and its many private conversations, the quiet laughter, the clink of glasses and silverware. It works for just a short while, but as they wait for their check, they of course have to bring the evening to  _ some  _ sort of close.

Fontaine is the one to speak up, naturally. “Look,” he says, “just focus on your own career for now. Don’t get caught up in the gritty details of all this. That’s  _ my  _ job.” He pauses, no doubt gauging his charge’s reaction. “Understand?” 

Jack keeps his face carefully neutral. “Yes, Sir.”

They depart the Kashmir at different times: Fontaine first, as soon as the bill is paid, providing an offhand comment about calls he has to make, contacts he needs to reach. It isn’t until at least five minutes later that Jack feels steady enough to do the same. He leaves the quiet music and ambient lighting for the silence of Rapture’s streets, and is relieved to find that the man who raised him has long since departed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh how I've missed writing Sinclair! <3 Though I think Jack's dinner with Fontaine is one of my fave scenes I've written in this fic so far. The daddy issues........... they're on the horizon............


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a MONSTER of a chapter, wow. It was even longer actually, but I shifted a bit of it around so it wouldn't be so much to get through. I don't think y'all will mind though. ;^) Enjoy!

The morning of Jack’s match dawns with nerves already simmering under his skin. He supposes that he feels some amount of anxiety before every fight, but this one, even more so. Maybe it’s silly, seeing as there aren’t really any tangible stakes; it’s not a high profile match, nor is it taking place in a high profile ring. Yet, as he heads to McDonagh’s that afternoon for a brief bit of training before spectators start filtering in, he can’t help but dwell on what will happen if he loses. 

For one thing, Fontaine will no doubt be disappointed. Second, it might lose him the bit of respect he’s managed to gain at McDonagh’s thus far. And third… after all the time Atlas has spent helping him…

 _No. Stop._ He forces himself to redirect his train of thought-- though it’s no easy task.

Luckily, he has plenty of distractions at his disposal.

“You seem awfully tense, boyo.”

Jack turns from where he’s busy pummeling a punching bag to see Atlas coming down the basement stairs. “Just a little,” he admits. “Big night and all.”

“Of course. But you’re ready for it.” His mentor gives him a hearty clap on the shoulder as he passes by. “I’ll be right with you.” 

They spend a decent amount of time sparring, most of it spent on going over his opponent’s likeliest strategies and learning how to adjust accordingly. Once they turn to practice bouts, Jack can feel his blood quickening. He’s able to pin Atlas a total of three times.

 _“There_ you go. Like an absolute dream.” Atlas is lying beneath him, breathing hard and smiling, hair ink-dark against the practice mat. He looks _proud._

Jack wants so _badly_ to kiss him. “I hope I can replicate that during the fight proper,” he says instead. 

“Sure you will. Just make sure not to freeze up, eh?”

“Of course.”

As he’s helping his mentor up off the ground, a voice calls, “Atlas!”

It’s Peterson, striding towards them with several other men in tow. Most of them Jack doesn’t recognize, but he does spot Macready’s thin face and blond, flyaway hair.

“How goes it, then?”

“Deadly,” Atlas replies. “Well, _I_ think so, at least. How about you, Jackie?”

Jack smiles and dodges out of the way as Atlas tries to elbow him. “I’d say so,” he agrees. “I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Well, it’s not the end of the world if you can’t pull it off, is it?” Peterson winks. “Not that you won’t, of course.”

“No, but…” Jack is slow to explain the details of his worries. Trying to keep things succinct, he says, “I’d rather not disappoint people if I don’t have to.”

“Sure, sure, I understand that.”

Macready then cuts in to say, “Don’t worry-- you wouldn’t disappoint anyone who matters." It earns him a couple laughs and at least one slap upside the head.

Not that Jack doesn’t appreciate the sentiment, but… it’s clear they don’t exactly understand his meaning. “Well,” he begins, “my sponsor--”

“Fontaine?” asks one of the other men. “Ahh, that man will take any opportunity to be a bastard, I reckon. Thinks he’s all that.” 

“Maybe so,” Jack agrees, feeling a bit put upon. “But even so, he’s provided a lot for me, so I--”

“What,” Macready says, and suddenly his smile appears almost _mocking,_ “you worried Daddy’ll stop paying your way?”

_“That’s enough.”_

Atlas draws everyone’s attention with those two words alone. His expression has flattened, masking some quiet fury, in a way Jack has only seen before in the ring. “Leave off, Macready,” he says. “Can’t you see the kid’s got plenty to deal with as it is?”

The whole group falls into abashed silence. 

“Well,” Peterson says, after a downright _painful_ pause. “We ought to leave you be.” 

Somehow he looks the most contrite of them all. There are murmured agreements all around, and everyone follows his lead without question. Peterson is the last one to the stairs; before he heads up, he turns around to look Jack in the eye.

“You’re more than ready for this,” he adds. It’s the most serious Jack has ever seen him. “Good luck.”

Then the two of them are alone once more.

Jack turns around. Though he feels the weight of Atlas’s eyes on him, he doesn’t dare look up. His knuckles need re-wrapping, anyway. They only have enough time for a few more drills before the match.

“Jack?”

“I’m fine.”

“… Look, Macready’s got a chip on his shoulder somethin’ fierce, don’t--”

“I said I’m _fine.”_

The bitterness to his words surprises even himself, and the wide-eyed look on Atlas's face is enough to curdle the remains of Jack’s anger. He drops his gaze to the floor and keeps it there. “I-I'm sorry,” he says quickly, quietly. “That was uncalled for.”

Atlas says nothing for several excruciating seconds. “It's alright, lad,” he eventually replies. “Don’t listen to that lot. Well, except for Peterson.” He snorts. “The rest are a bit tetchy about Rapture’s high and mighty.”

“I don’t blame them.” It’s hard to tie off his bandages with how much he’s fumbling. “Believe me, I don’t. When you’ve got all those rich folks fawning over you, and you _know_ none of them give a _damn_ about anything but the money you’re making them--” He grits his teeth, finally giving up and letting his hands hang limp at his sides. “It’s enough to make you sick,” he adds under his breath. 

“And Fontaine?”

“What?”

Those blue eyes meet his, ever patient. “Is Fontaine one of those people?” 

Jack hesitates-- but only just. “Fontaine has never been one for fawning,” he replies.

The expression on Atlas’s face remains carefully unreadable. Then a hand is proffered to him, palm open. Jack lifts his own until the other man is able to grab hold of his wraps, fingers gently cradling his wrist. Atlas does his work in quiet, and it’s a soothing thing to see how the fabric weaves its way over tendons and knuckles and veins.

Once both bandages have been pulled tight, Atlas says to him, “Think you’re up for one more round?”

The titan asking the mortal, _Is your burden too much to bear?_

“Of course,” Jack says. “Say the word.”

In no time at all, they’re putting away their equipment and Atlas is changing back into his street clothes. Jack doesn’t bother; he can already hear the crowd growing above, their footsteps and bubbling conversation audible through the floorboards. Thomas Murphy comes in to change, nodding politely to both of them. Not wanting him to overhear any plans, they discuss inconsequential things-- Atlas’s job in Hephaestus, for one thing, has become a great source of interest to Jack-- until finally Murphy disappears from sight.

“Now remember,” Atlas starts telling him, “Don’t let the man tire you out. Your greatest strength is your reach, so you’ve got to--”

“Corner him when I’ve got the chance, right,” Jack finishes. “I know.”

“Just don’t let him trip you up in the middle of the fight by--”

 _“Atlas.”_ It’s impossible to keep the smile from his voice. “We’ve been over this a million times by now.”

“Well that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

Jack raises his eyes to the ceiling in mock annoyance. “Yes, Da,” he drawls.

As soon as he says the words, he realizes it doesn’t sound at _all_ how he’d intended-- but he can’t take it back now, and Atlas is dumbstruck before him, and is-- blushing? God, is _Jack’s_ face coloring as well? 

“Atlas,” he begins, I--”

“Are you ready back there? Murphy’s already in the ring!”

The call startles both of them back into the present. It’s like a floodgate has opened: the eager chatter of the crowd filters in through the locker room door, anticipation heavy in the air. Jack glances back at Atlas with what feels like a look of absolute helplessness on his face.

“You’re alright,” the man tells him. He gives Jack’s bicep a quick squeeze. “Go on. I’ll see you after you’ve won the match.”

It’s exactly what he needs to hear. With a nod and a tense smile, Jack grabs his gloves and heads for the door.

To his surprise, when he steps into the ring, he does get a few cheers in his favor. As he checks his laces, the vice grip on his heart relaxes just the slightest bit. He isn’t quite as disadvantaged here as he had been during his fight with Atlas: he knows his opponent, has a plan, has prepared for this. 

“Fighters! Are you ready?”

Jack locks eyes with Murphy for one brief moment. Then both of them nod and assume their stances. 

“First round starts in three… two… one…” 

All that’s left is to win.

“And _begin!”_

The match starts much the same as his fight with Atlas: he and Murphy stepping carefully around one another, assessing, waiting for an opening. Murphy is the first to spot one, and he steps forward to strike out with a lightning-fast jab-- but Jack is ready. He blocks with both forearms and takes the blow. Powerful, but not so much as to knock him off balance. 

He has just enough time to retaliate, swinging out with a left hook. It whiffs entirely, the other man sidestepping it with ease. Agile, indeed; though Jack is hardly a slow fighter, Murphy is leaner and therefore lighter on his feet.

All things considered, the first round passes uneventfully-- as does the second, third, fourth, and fifth. The sixth has both fighters clearly feeling the exertion. Jack’s nerves are alight, every part of him anxious for a decent hit, but forces himself to be patient. 

In the seventh round, Murphy comes at him with a flurry of punches, right-left-right. He’s able to dodge all but the last of him. It catches him under his ribs and cuts his breathing short, sends him stumbling backwards-- then another strike connects with his side, _just_ over his kidneys, and suddenly he’s tasting blood.

 _You’re faster’n that,_ Atlas’s voice says in his head. _I know you are._

Two arms come up under his own, fists clenched over his spine, and _squeeze._

The sharp pressure inwards, along with Murphy’s head pressed to his chest, force his back to arch until he loses his balance. He hits the mat with a _whuff_ of air and feels a rush of déjà vu as Murphy falls to his knees on the mat above him, straddling his waist.

This time, though, he’s ready. Before Murphy has a chance to execute any sort of hold, Jack plants his feet and bucks, sending the man up and nearly over his head. Jack twists his hips at the last moment and tosses their combined weight to the side. 

Just as he’s reaching for Murphy’s shoulders, knees coming up, his opponent manages to scrabble away. Both of them are back on their feet at once.

Jack wants to _kick_ himself for missing that opportunity. But it’s not all bad-- at least it hadn’t cost him the match.

Things simmer down for a bit as the two of them catch their breath and consider their options. The crowd sounds absolutely feral, no doubt spurred on by that close call. There’s even an audible reaction as the bell rings to signify the end of the round.

As it turns out, they have a while to wait: another entire round passes uneventfully, as does the majority of round ten.

A break in routine finally comes when Jack loses his footing a second time. 

In the split second after he feels his knee buckle beneath him, he knows he can try to recover-- but he stops himself. Instead he lets himself fall, knowing that Murphy will follow him to the mat. And once he does, Jack _lunges._

He manages-- with no small amount of resistance-- to get his right arm over Murphy’s neck and shoulder, _just_ enough to bend it at the elbow and grab hold of his other wrist. Immediately he feels the throat against his arm flex in a desperate bid for air. It provides him with the leverage he needs to pull the man forward, the chokehold forcing his head against Jack’s ribs as they fall back. 

The rest happens just as he’d practiced in the training room. No sooner does Jack’s spine meet the ground than he’s twisting, one bent leg carrying his momentum, until Murphy lands with a dull _thud_ on the mat beneath him. From there it’s easy to simply bear down, down, his opponent’s face turning red from lack of oxygen. 

It takes Murphy an impressive amount of time before he taps out, but once he does, and the referee signals the end of the match, the whole room _erupts._

Jack lets go as though he’s been burned. Chokeholds are a nasty thing if prolonged; luckily his opponent still seems conscious, if only barely. He insists on standing on his own, but he does take Jack’s offered handshake once their gloves are off. 

And then, for the first time since coming to McDonagh’s, Jack raises his arm in victory.

Looking out into the writhing crowd, it’s near impossible to pick any one face out from the others. Somehow, he thinks he can picture exactly one of them perfectly. 

He changes and rinses off at lightning speed in the locker room, tugging on his sweater with perhaps more force than necessary. All his unspent energy and palpable relief has him jittery with excitement. He can’t seem to stop _smiling._ The cacophony that he knows is waiting above has him nearly tripping over himself. Leaving his duffel bag behind, he throws open the locker room door and--

Runs directly into Atlas.

 _“You’ve done it!”_ For a split second, Jack is almost _sure_ he’s about to be lifted off his feet, with the vice grip he feels around his ribs. “You absolute madman! That was on purpose, weren’t it?”

“What was?”

“That seventh round!” Atlas is grinning so widely that it looks painful. “C’mon, boyo, I’m not as young as I once was. You can’t go scarin’ me like that.”

“He did have me on the ropes for a while there,” Jack admits rather sheepishly.

“Aye, but you got yourself out of it. That’s what we’ve been training for.”

“That’s true.” It takes a considerable amount of effort not to focus on the warmth of Atlas’s palms against his upper arms. “So?” he asks. “How’s the mob upstairs looking?”

Atlas laughs. “Civil, but only just.” He indicates the door with a tilt of his head. “Come on then. And if you don’t think I’m gettin’ you absolutely hammered tonight, then you’re dead wrong.”

He _does_ make good on that promise-- though it’s a bit difficult at first, what with all the commotion filling the tavern. They get stopped multiple times on their way to the bar, on several occasions by total strangers. Atlas has to practically elbow people to get them to move aside. It makes him seem a bit like a bouncer for a high profile celebrity, which has Jack stifling a laugh into his palm.

When they finally secure some drinks and start moving towards an unoccupied corner of the bar, they’re stopped yet again-- but this time by someone a little more familiar.

“You put on an awful good show tonight.”

Jack’s chest clenches just the tiniest bit as he watches Macready appear out of the crowd. To his right, Atlas goes still, no doubt ready to intervene at the drop of a hat. Unsure of what else to say, he settles on a polite, yet curt, “Thank you.”

Macready smiles, but it looks a bit like a wince. “Yeah,” he agrees, “that’s about what I deserve.” His dark eyes dart away to fix themselves somewhere else. “Look,” he starts, “Sorry about what I said earlier. It was uncalled for.” 

Jack blinks. “Oh.”

“It’s hard not to get a bit, well, heated when it comes to… you know.” Macready looks properly contrite when their eyes meet again. One hand clutching his drink, he shoves the other deep into his pocket. “Let me buy you a round?” he asks.

Jack chances a quick glance at Atlas, who looks caught somewhere between surprised and smug. Then he looks down at the drink already in his hand. “Well,” he says, “you’ll have to let me finish this one first.”

The smile that earns him is incredibly relieved. “Deal.” 

Macready makes good on _his_ promise too, talking with the both of them long enough to pay his due before announcing that he’s off to find “the others”, disappearing into the sea of bodies. It’s unsure if he means to come back, but for the moment, they’re left alone.

Situated at the eye of the storm, the two of them spend a good deal of time discussing the details of the match: what went right, what went wrong. Hearing how the whole thing looked from the audience is certainly an enlightening perspective. Jack doesn’t think he’s ever heard someone describe his fighting style the way Atlas does. 

A couple drinks later and still, no one shows. Neither of them pay it any mind.

“If I’m being honest,” Jack says, “I sorely needed these. I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin after that fight.”

“Ahh, I don’t blame you. The post-match fallout can be somethin’ else.”

“Mm. At Fort Frolic it was the _worst.”_ He upends the final sip of his third drink-- whiskey, at Atlas’s insistence-- and feels the burn as it hits his throat. “Right after a match I’d always have to head straight to the Kashmir or the Manta Ray or some such place and act…” He searches around for the right word. “Composed? Subdued?”

“Like a bootlicker, no doubt,” Atlas adds with a wry smile.

Jack snorts. “You’re not entirely wrong.”

“At least here you can have yourself a bit of a breather before all the gladhandin’. Give your blood a chance to cool and the like.”

In the current moment though, Jack’s blood feels much the opposite. The alcohol is hitting him faster than expected; he has no idea what proof his whiskey had been, but it must’ve been strong, judging by the sudden headrush. It leaves him pleasantly warm all the way down to his fingertips. _Just_ relaxed enough that it begins to loosen his tongue.

“A-Atlas,” he stutters out suddenly, mouth a mile ahead of his brain, “back when we fought for the first time, and you pinned me, I. W-Well, I-I, ah. I’m sorry i-if, um--”

“If you made me uncomfortable?” Atlas finishes for him, though not unkindly. “Think nothin’ of it. Happens to the best of us.”

Jack can't quite stop the bewilderment from showing on his face. “It does?”

“Well, sure.” Those sharp eyes glance at him sidelong, cutting to the quick-- but they don’t hold their gaze. Atlas waves a hand, nonchalant, attention suddenly focused elsewhere. “S’happened to me before, too,” he adds, quieter. 

It takes longer than it might while sober for Jack to realize that Atlas is _embarrassed._ But takes no time at all to decide that he finds it infinitely endearing.

An image forms unbidden in his mind. Atlas, in the same position he’d been, tired from a fight and pumped full of adrenaline, body eager for some sort of outlet… 

_No. No, no, no._ Jack resists the urge to shake his head in an attempt to dislodge his traitorous thoughts. “A-ah, I see,” he replies. His voice sits wrong in his mouth and he prays that its strangled quality isn’t too obvious.

Atlas gives a single, firm nod. He’s still not looking at Jack; his eyes are on their table now, on the glass cradled in his hands. “Aye. So just… don’ tear yourself up over it.” 

Jack nods too. He isn’t sure if Atlas sees, but their conversation peters out regardless, its end hanging awkwardly in the air between them.

 _“There’s_ the newbie!”

A sudden outburst breaks its way through the ambient noise, and Jack is jolted forward as a hand claps him on the back. Another does the same to Atlas, causing the man to clutch hastily at his drink.

 _“Christ,_ Peterson,” he says, “watch yourself. I only have so much t’spend, I can't afford to waste a drop.”

Peterson grins, practically radiating mirth. “Well lemme buy you a round myself! A round for the both of you!”

After that, their stilted conversation is a thing of the past. Others quickly join their table, drawn by Peterson’s booming voice and drunken enthusiasm. It’s easy to get lost in all the noise. Atlas, it seems, does the same; he appears much as he had before that first match, relaxed and confident and nothing but smiles.

Jack would be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved. And yet… a quiet, insistent part of him wishes they’d been left to their own devices. That he’d had time to mull over Atlas's answer, and that he’d had the bravery to act on whatever conclusion he might’ve reached.

The night goes on. McDonagh’s is at its brightest, rowdiest, and most colorful after a match. Even those who hadn’t watched join in the festivities and conversation. Most everyone wants to buy the winner a drink-- and of course, with their reigning champion in sight, to buy Atlas a drink as well.

Jack isn’t sure how long it takes for the noise to die down, but by the time it does, the world around him is more than a bit blurry. He feels wrapped in gauze, warm and slow, frighteningly comfortable in his own skin. He feels like he’s underwater.

 _Oh but I_ am, he realizes suddenly. 

“Somethin’ funny, boyo?”

Jack turns to see Atlas looking at him quizzically. Had he really laughed aloud at his own joke? God, but he _is_ drunk. “Nothin”,” he replies. “Stupid, is all.” 

Atlas mouths a quiet _ohh,_ lips quirked in amusement. Even in the bar’s lowlight, the flush to the man's cheeks stands out a bright pink. Such a _distracting_ expression on such a handsome face, Jack muses. He turns his attention back to his drink, desperate to focus his mind elsewhere-- only to realize that his glass is empty. “Shit.”

Atlas hums in agreement. “Probably should cut ourselves off. S’late.”

“Hmm.” The thought of getting up and walking back to his flat is a distinctly painful one. His distorted reflection stares up at him from the bottom of his glass, its expression morose. “I was just starting to enjoy all the company.”

“An’ the drinks?” Atlas asks.

“And the drinks,” he admits. His honesty startles a laugh out of the other man. It makes Jack’s insides even warmer, like he's somehow gone and swallowed the sun. 

Though Jack wouldn’t consider his companion to be particularly stoic, something about drink manages to break down that final, otherwise impenetrable barrier between them. Atlas feels less like some hero or god-made-flesh now than he ever has. Perhaps he ought not to, but Jack is finding that he enjoys the change: words come easier, missteps are easier to hide, their banter more natural. The significant amount of alcohol in his body is making it hard to overthink things the way he usually does with Atlas involved.

Right up until they move to leave and Atlas asks him, “Mind joining me outside for a mo’ first?”

They step into the narrow alley between McDonagh’s one external wall and the edge of the upper wharf. In Rapture’s wealthier districts, Jack remembers some of the streets being heated from beneath. Here, however, they’re surprisingly frigid. The vast ocean closing them in on all sides is a force to be reckoned with, radiating a depth of coldness that he feels in his bones. He catches a flicker of shadow through the glass-- fish skirting past, unaware of the late hour-- and rubs briskly at his arms through the dark knit of his turtleneck. 

Atlas, though dressed far lighter, doesn’t seem as bothered. Maybe he's used to it? Maybe it’s the booze? Petulant in a way that only comes to him while drunk, Jack huffs out a breath and wishes _his_ booze was insulating him so well. “Can I trouble you for one?” he asks, nodding to the pack of cigarettes. 

His companion raises a brow, but complies. “Didn’t know you smoked,” he says as he hands it over.

“I don’t. That is, unless I’m drinking.”

That earns him a smile. “Fair enough.” There’s the quiet _shick_ of a lighter and a small flame lights up the gloom between them. It casts dramatic shadows on Atlas’s face, highlighting his cheekbones and the stubble framing his jaw. Flecks of orange cast an eerie light in his pale eyes. He lights his own cigarette before tossing the lighter Jack’s way.

“Seems like you're gettin’ used to McDonagh’s, are you?” Atlas asks. Smoke wisps from his lips as he speaks, curling in the air like feeble ghosts.

“Oh, sure. Now that everyone’s stopped hating my guts.” Jack smiles, fingers cradling his cigarette, his gaze distant. “Just think,” he adds after a moment, “it only took you beating my ass near hundreds of times before I managed to win.”

Another laugh from Atlas, this one louder than the last. “Rest assured that I’ll continue to do the same.”

“Is that a threat I ought to worry about?”

“Suppose so.” Those eyes narrow with Atlas’s smile, smug as could be. “That is if you plan on beatin’ me in the ring anytime soon.”

Of course, Jack wouldn’t deny that he’s thought often about a rematch with Atlas-- far more often than might be considered usual, in fact. Part of him wonders if he’ll ever even manage to win it. Even as he learns more and more from his mentor, he never _quite_ manages to keep his head on straight when Atlas pins him to the mat. He’d be surprised if the man wasn’t fully aware of that weakness at this point, to be honest.

That thought alone is nearly enough to send him reeling. Or maybe it’s the whiskey?

“Well, I could just be biding my time,” he answers belatedly. “Trying to learn your secrets.”

“I’d certainly _hope_ you are, considerin’ I’m tryin’ to teach ‘em to you.”

“Like I said: biding my time.”

“Right.” Atlas shakes his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. He peers into the darkened streets just beyond the alley. “Then I guess it’s my job to keep us trainin’.”

“For as long as you’ll have me,” Jack replies. And he means it-- earnestly so.

Atlas turns back towards him, face lit by the warm light pouring from the bar. His expression softens. He says, “For as long as you need me, Jackie.”

His smile then is especially lovely, and Jack is incapable of stopping himself from staring. _For as long as you need me._ What a promise to make to someone who’s still half a stranger. Still, it has his heart doing a funny, painful sort of squeeze in his chest.

Which, because he’s an idiot, is accompanied not a moment later by the sharp sting of his cigarette burning down to his fingertips. 

“Ow-- _fuck_.”

“Alright there?”

Jack nods, the pad of his thumb pressed to his lips. “Stupid,” he mutters. He holds his hand up to the light. There won’t be any lasting marks, of course, thanks to his calluses. Still, there’s a small, blotchy red burn he can feel throbbing beneath the fog of inebriation. 

“Care for another?”

Feeling rather guilty about wasting such perfectly good cigarettes, Jack sighs and nods. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

He takes the proffered smoke and leaves his hand out for the lighter as well. Instead, there’s the sound of boots against cobblestone as Atlas steps into his space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. Close enough to touch. Close enough to… 

Before Jack’s nerves can get the better of him, a pair of rough, warm hands cup his, holding the cigarette in place as Atlas leans in to light it with his own. Jack has the sudden urge to try counting the man’s dark lashes; they’re easy to see at this angle, feathered against his cheeks with how his gaze is turned downwards. Jack is nothing short of enamored.

The space between them smells like smoke and whiskey and fading cologne. When Atlas looks up, his gaze is half-lidded and glimmering, reflections like burning embers in the blue of his eyes. 

“There,” he says. Quiet, but matter-of-fact, as though Jack isn’t staring at him like a man struck dumb. As though the beat of his heart isn’t loud enough to be heard through flesh and bone.

 _To Hell with this,_ Jack thinks.

His cigarette falls to the ground between them like a star to the earth. His fingers curl around a wrist, a waist, and simple as that, he leans in.

Atlas makes a quiet, startled noise that is quickly muffled by their kiss. For a brief moment Jack’s stomach tightens-- has he misread things? Has he crossed some invisible boundary, misconstrued quick glances and casual touches to mean genuine interest? But just as he loosens his grip and begins to pull away, he feels the press of a gentle hand against his jaw.

His eyes open just long enough for him to catch the sight of Atlas’s own fluttering closed, his brow furrowing, head tilting just so. The hand now at his nape pulls him closer, and Jack can’t help it-- he smiles. Their kiss distorts with its curve, mouths fitting awkwardly together, but he can hardly bring himself to care.

Hot, staccato breaths wash over them both as they part. Neither one is willing to move, hands still in place and chests touching. Atlas’s eyes dart over his face, taking in so _much_ that Jack nearly shivers under their scrutiny. The pupils are blown wide and ringed in that startling shade of blue, and he is reminded distinctly of Rapture’s depths, dark and vast and hungry.

“Again?” Atlas asks him.

Jack nods, face flushing hot at his own eagerness. His voice leaves his throat strangled. _“Please.”_

The second time, it’s different-- not quite natural, but close. Still fumbling, still unsure, Atlas cradles Jack’s face in his hands and he all but melts, lips parting with a shaky intake of breath. His fingers curl themselves tighter at the man’s waist and pull him closer. Chest to chest, it’s easy to feel the stuttering rise and fall of their shared breathing. Jack slides a palm up over Atlas’s back and hums, pleased, when the touch makes him shudder. 

It’s easy to let things escalate from there. Atlas walks them back until Jack is pressed against damp brick, both of them swallowed by the shadow of McDonagh’s outer walls. He can’t suppress a full-body shiver as firm hands slide down his neck, chest, stomach, dipping briefly under the hem of his sweater before pulling away as if burned.

“Jack--” Atlas says then. Short, rough, an octave deeper than normal, but before he can say more, they’re kissing again. 

Jack tugs insistently at Atlas’s waist until a leg slots into place between his thighs, and the heat that flares up white-hot in his gut is enough to make him _weak._ His hips twitch in a desperate attempt at relief. His breath leaves him in pants as Atlas licks into his mouth and groans. His legs shake, and his hands slide further down to grab that _perfect_ ass through worn denim, and--

“Jack, w- _wait.”_

It’s said with enough insistence that this time he does actually listen, albeit reluctantly. He pulls away and lets his head tilt back against the wall, eyes downcast and lips parted. Atlas is looking at him like a man half-starved.

“We can’t,” he says.

Something in the pit of Jack’s stomach drops. “W-Why not?”

“Because we-- it’s-- we’re _drunk,_ boyo.”

“And?” In his haze, now compounded by thick and honeyed lust, being drunk doesn’t have a thing to do with anything. He demonstrates as much-- in a way that, perhaps if he were sober, would seem embarrassingly needy-- as he cants his hips forward against a muscled thigh. He tightens his grip and Atlas groans, leaning back into the sensation even as his head falls forward, overcome, to rest on Jack’s shoulder.

“W-We _can’t,_ ” he repeats, panting, and God, does Jack want to snatch the words right out of his mouth. 

“S’alright if we’re _both_ drunk. It--” Jack bites his lip as Atlas’s weight puts more pressure on his already trapped dick. “Doesn’t-- ah, f- _fuck.”_

“It _does.”_ Though he’s doing a poor job of resisting temptation, Atlas does finally manage to gather his wits long enough to pull away, shaky hands grabbing Jack gently by each wrist. He looks up, his gaze surprisingly steady. “I _want_ this,” he says. “I do. But we have to-- I just.” Jack can hear the click of his throat as he swallows, and his cheeks darken as he finishes, “I want to do this right.” 

Something in Jack’s chest aches. Despite the thorny want still curling endlessly inside him, he meets Atlas’s gaze and nods.

They disentangle themselves from one another slowly, like sliding out of a dream. Already Jack knows that he’ll look back on this moment in the morning and be near paralyzed by his embarrassment. For now though, their separation allows him to breathe and clear his head for the first time in several long minutes.

When Atlas takes a step back on unsteady legs, he nearly stumbles over the loose cobblestone. _“Christ.”_ He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to ground himself. “I gotta say,” he grates out, scrubbing a hand over his face, “I didn’t think tonight would end, uh. Like this.”

Jack watches his mentor closely. He sees the tight line of those broad shoulders, the sheen to his kiss-swollen lips, the blush spreading tantalizingly downwards past his open shirt collar. And, because it’s _far_ too difficult to prevent himself, he glances below Atlas’s waist and draws a slow, covetous breath.

“Neither did I,” he agrees. He sounds almost winded, which Atlas must notice, because it makes him smile, tender yet desirous all at once.

“I promise I don’t mean anythin’ by, ah-- makin’ us stop.” 

“I know.” And now it’s Jack’s turn to blush, because, well. He _had_ been rather pushy, hadn’t he? “I’m sorry I was, um.”

“Enthusiastic?”

Jack grimaces. “To put it mildly.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that.” Atlas’s smile widens into a full-blown grin, and Jack finds himself blushing harder even before the man adds, “Save all that enthusiasm for later, eh?”

Finally feeling capable of holding his own weight, Jack pushes away from the wall and goes about righting himself. He can feel Atlas’s eyes on him the whole time. Face hot, he tries adjusting his slacks so that they don’t fall quite so… _uncomfortably._ Lucky the streets are so dark, and lucky he doesn’t live all that far away. 

“Will you, um, be alright getting home?” he asks. 

Atlas freezes. “Ahh,” he sighs, “would you believe me if I said I hadn’t even thought a’ that?”

“We _are_ quite drunk. So yes.”

“Shit. Well.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking more exasperated than anything else. “I guess there’s no other option than to take the tram and hope I don’t come across _too_ mental.”

Perhaps what happens next is also due to confidence borne of alcohol and adrenaline. Perhaps this, too, will be added to the long list of things Jack has to be mortified about in the morning. But whatever its cause, the next words out of his mouth are, “Come stay with me, then.”

Atlas looks at him like he’s somehow grown a second head. “Sorry?”

“Come stay with me,” Jack repeats. When he’s met initially with silence, his nerves propel him onward. “I-I mean, if you would want to, that is,” he amends. “And I don’t mean it in, ah, _that_ way. It’s just that I live closer, you see, so if you want to avoid any awkward situations then maybe it’d be best if you-- are you laughing?”

Part of him wants to be indignant, but he can’t. Not when he sees the way Atlas’s shoulders shake with silent mirth, eyes crinkling from the force of his smile. 

“A regular Casanova, aren’t you, lad?” He waves a hand, placating, before Jack can say anything remotely defensive. “Only jokin’, only jokin’.” When he straightens up again, he inclines his head in the direction of the street. There’s a fondness to his expression that sends Jack’s insides fluttering. “Sure, alright,” he says. “If you’re offerin’.”

It’s hard not to look _too_ eager at that response. “So-- so you’ll come, then?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” 

Blue eyes, teasing, sharp as steel but somehow soft. And Jack, enamored as he is, can’t bring himself to question his choices any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE DID IT, BOYS. We got past the UST!!!! Huzzah!!!!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a rest chapter, folks. I mean, it isn't reeeeally, cause SPOILERS there is definitely more spicy stuff in this one, but otherwise it's a bit shorter. Our boys need some time to chill before we get back into some plot. Enjoy!

Getting back to his flat feels a bit daring, like they’re teenagers sneaking back home after curfew. Not that Jack has done such things himself, of course-- Fontaine had seen to that. But in his upbringing he _did_ have books, and television sitcoms, the latter of which so often seemed focused on young love in the face of parental objection. Though his buzz has died down somewhat by the time they arrive, Jack still can’t help but be a bit giddy as he fits his key into the lock. 

“Wow.” Atlas stops in the foyer, hands on his hips, eyes taking in the rather sorry state of the place. “This is…”

“Go on-- it’s shabby, isn’t it?”

The older man winces. “Well, I wasn’t gonna _quite_ put it that way, but.” He trails behind Jack as they move into the joint kitchen and seating area. “I thought you had some ritzy sponsors up in Fort Frolic?”

“I do. But Mr. Fontaine reallocates most of that.”

“Huh.” There’s a frown in Atlas’s voice. When Jack turns to look at him, he’s running his fingers absentmindedly over the couch’s worn fabric.

“Besides,” Jack adds, feeling somehow compelled to elaborate, “I’d rather have better equipment than a nicer place. And Mr. Fontaine isn’t really known for his… generosity.”

Atlas snorts. “Dunno if other people would put it quite so delicately, boyo. But yeah. Fontaine’s a piece of work.”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to frown. He isn’t upset, really-- if anything, he’d be the first to concede that Fontaine has always been less than personable. Downright callous, sometimes. He’d said as much when he and Atlas had talked before his match. But… Fontaine’s done so much for Jack, hasn’t he? And shouldn’t that count for something? 

He used to be so _sure_ of that when he’d lived up in the Artemis Suites. Now though, with the distance he’s put between himself and his guardian-turned-handler… the nerve-wracking dinner at the Kashmir… things feel _different._

Far too heavy discussion for an otherwise lighthearted night. Instead of properly answering, Jack nods at the hand Atlas still has on the couch and says, “Don’t think for a minute that I’m going to make you sleep on this thing.”

Atlas looks up sharply, eyes wide. “But we--” Then he relaxes. “Oh. You mean to give me the bed, don’t you.”

“Yes.” There’s a pause in which both of their not-quite-sober minds work to untangle themselves. When everything does click into place, however, Jack finds it impossible to stifle his smile. “Hang on, did you think that I was trying to-- to--”

“Oh, _hush.”_ Atlas’s furious blush stands out even in the dim lighting. “Don’t act as though it weren’t a reasonable conclusion to draw.”

“Says the man who had _his_ tongue down _my_ throat not an hour ago.”

Atlas makes a choked noise that, halfway through, turns into a laugh. “Alright, alright. You know, when I first met you I’d no idea you’d be such a smartass.”

Again, Jack’s traitorous heart beats just a little harder at the warmth beneath that gibe. “I could say the same about you,” he shoots back, grinning. 

Atlas responds with a smile in kind. “Is that any way to talk to your elder?” he says, and that, too, sets a spark alight in Jack’s gut. This time, he tries his hardest not to second-guess it. 

He leads the way to the bedroom, which is blessedly free of clutter, apart from a few loose socks. Despite it being many months since his move, he still hasn’t quite adjusted to the new space. “I spend most of my time at McDonagh’s anyway,” he says when Atlas comments on the sparse decor. “Mostly I just come here to sleep.”

“Sounds like you need to get out more, boyo.” 

Jack rubs a palm over the back of his neck. “You’re probably right. But…” He takes a deep breath, thoughts swirling in his head like the dregs of his booze. “I think,” he says, “that tonight was a step in the right direction?”

“That it was.” The bed-springs creak as Atlas takes a seat. He looks up, eyes bright as they meet Jack’s. “We ought t’make a habit of it. I’d like that.”

Briefly, Jack wonders what the sky must look like at this moment, miles and miles above them. Is it night on the surface as well? Or is it midday, and are there any clouds to mar all that perfect blue, the same shade as Atlas’s gaze? 

“Deal,” he replies, feeling strangely unsteady. They talk for a moment longer, sorting out the technicalities of their impromptu sleeping arrangement, before Jack leaves his guest to his own devices. 

He has no problems at first, focused as he is on the task of setting up his makeshift bed. Sinking into the worn couch cushions has him breathing a sigh of relief. Seeing how cold it is in Rapture, he had been sure to bring a decent supply of woolen blankets in his move. Stripped down to his undershirt and drawers, Jack burrows under a veritable mountain of them and waits for his drunken mind to reorient itself. 

_I ought to sleep,_ he tells himself. He can see the clock’s ghostly face from the kitchen wall, showing what looks to be either two or three in the morning. Either way, it’s late enough that he knows he’ll be sluggish once he finally wakes. Best to mitigate that while he still can.

And yet… staring up at the spiderwebbed cracks in the ceiling, it’s all too easy to let his thoughts stray. Namely, to the man just one room away, presumably already fast asleep.

 _But what if he’s not?_ says an awful, degenerate part of him. _What if he’s still thinking of you, as you are of him? What if he’s imagining how things might have gone, had he been a little less chivalrous, and allowed you to--_

Jack lets out a breath through clenched teeth. He’s blushing again, he can tell, even though there’s no one around to blush _for._ Already he can feel those few remaining vestiges of his arousal growing stronger. Ignoring them now that he’s alone is almost harder than when he’d been with Atlas. Almost.

Because now, if he’d like to, he can easily just reach down and…

He rolls onto his side with a huff, staring into the darkness so intently that his eyes begin to water. He slips his hands beneath his pillow and _keeps them there._ Honestly, what is he thinking? Even though he’s in his own flat, he’s _far_ from alone, and even though he and Atlas are-- well, God knows _what_ now, he can’t just. Do something like that. With Atlas so close.

Of course, his brain then unhelpfully provides him with an image: of Atlas lying against him, chest against Jack’s spine, one rough hand sliding over Jack’s waist smooth as water. Those fingers finding their way under his waistband and holding him so sweetly.

Face pressed into his pillow, Jack feels his cock twitch against his thigh and has to bite his lip to stifle a groan. Part of him wonders if taking a shower would help, but that would require going painfully close to his bedroom. He’s not certain he could survive the mortification of that. It’s with a resigned sigh, then, that he allows one hand to slowly make its way down the length of his body, eyes tightly shut as if that will somehow lessen his embarrassment. 

Just as his fingertips brush the hem of his shorts, the creak of a door suddenly opening makes him freeze entirely.

Thanks to the position of the couch, he isn’t immediately in sight of the bedroom; he has several precious seconds to relax, pretending to be asleep, before Atlas comes into view. It’s hard to see much with his eyes almost shut, but Jack catches a glimpse of a bare, muscled back as the man turns away. For a moment he’s framed in warm light from the hall bathroom. Then the door shuts firmly behind him.

In the ensuing silence, Jack can hear his heart fluttering anxiously in his chest. He can’t look away from the thin sliver of light beneath the door. His hand is still resting against his stomach. Before he can overthink things, he slides it down between his legs.

The room disappears behind his eyelids as he tips his head back, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He hadn’t realized how hard he was until now, with his pulse throbbing fast against his palm, every inch of him flushed. An experimental stroke spreads precome over his skin and a moan seeps out from between his teeth.

What’s Atlas doing, he wonders suddenly? The rational half of his mind says it’s nothing, that he’s overthinking things, but the ever-increasing, lust-driven half says otherwise. Because what if Atlas is doing the exact same thing as he is? What if Atlas is stroking himself, stifling his moans, standing on shaky legs while thinking of Jack? Of _fucking_ Jack?

His other hand flies up to cover his mouth as another sound escapes him, his eyebrows screwed shut in concentration. He squeezes his cock just a bit, feels the tight grip of his fist. His hips buck into it almost instinctually. Beneath him, the couch quietly creaks in protest.

God, how he _wants._ Part of him is embarrassed by just how much-- _you barely know Atlas,_ his brain chimes in, _you’re coworkers more than anything, and yet here you are, so completely gone on him already._

Part of him wonders if he’s simply unused to the attention. To the kind words, to the helpful hands, to the easy smiles. How starved is he, really, if that’s all it took for him to become smitten? 

In the moment, though, he can’t bring himself to dwell on this too long. Not when his blood is pounding as he imagines Atlas’s mouth against his ear, that gentle lilt telling him, “Very good, Jackie, just like that, _perfect--”_

After one more twist of his wrist Jack goes rigid, spilling over his clenched fist. Every breath stutters out of him as he lets his eyes flutter open. Coming down from his high brings a bit of disgust in his wake, because there’s no doubt his couch will now be sporting a new stain if he doesn’t clean things up quick.

Fortunately, this time luck is on his side: he hears the door to the bathroom open just a few minutes later. The light clicks off again quickly and leaves him in darkness. He waits one one thousand, two. Silence. Then he untangles himself from the blankets and rises on unsteady feet, fumbling his way through the dark, all the while watching for shadows beneath the bedroom door.

“Didn’t sleep much, did you?”

Jack very nearly spits out his mouthful of coffee. “Sorry?”

“You seem distracted is all. Can’t imagine that couch is very comfortable.” Atlas turns to raise an eyebrow in mild concern as Jack rights himself.

Waking up in the morning to remember that he’d brought Atlas home with him had been a bit nerve-wracking. He spent so much time dissecting the minutiae of their conversations during training alone that he didn’t know _how_ he’d manage to do the same in his own flat. But, then again... seeing Atlas here, among his meager belongings... that brings its own kind of comfort. They’d even had a brief but heated debate over who was going to make breakfast. 

In the end, Atlas had won-- as payment for helping to preserve his dignity, he’d claimed. Hence the crackling eggs crackling on the stove top, the fresh bread waiting in the toaster, and Jack sitting at the table feeling rather bemused. 

“No, I ah-- I slept fine,” he says. It’s not _entirely_ untrue, after all. “Just a bit out of it.”

Atlas hums in understanding. Only a few minutes pass before he’s setting their plates down and settling in across from Jack. “Things went a bit wild last night, eh?” He asks with a grin. “In more ways than one.”

“Y-Yeah. McDonagh’s is gonna have an awful lot of cleanup to do.” Jack feels a little wobbly at the way his mentor _watches_ him so closely as he speaks. Why is this so much harder than it had been while drunk? 

...Well, then again. Maybe he’s already answered his own question.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Atlas is saying. “You should a’ seen my first prize-winning match. I’m surprised the place didn’t fall to pieces from all the chaos.”

“How modest.”

 _“Alright,_ you know I don’t mean it like that.”

Jack does smile at that response, relaxing just the slightest bit. _There, much better._ Maybe he just needs to learn not to _overthink_ things quite so much. 

“You know, boyo, you’re a bit of an open book.”

 _Oh, no._ “A-Am I?”

Atlas nods. “I’ve thought for awhile that you might, ah, fancy me. If you’d like to call it that.” Oh, but now _he’s_ blushing too, his grin almost bashful as he fidgets with his mug of coffee, and-- if that isn’t enough to bolster Jack, there’s nothing else in the world that will.

“Well, I-I mean.” Jack clears his throat. “You _are_ very dashing.” 

The laugh that earns him is music to his ears. “Flatterer,” Atlas scolds him. “But I could say the same about you. D’you have any idea how you looked in that ring when we fought?” The man tilts his head, taking in every bit of Jack’s reaction to his words. “A force of nature, is what you were,” he adds then. Quiet, as though it’s a secret he hadn’t ever dared to voice.

Even as his face heats up at the praise, Jack tries his hardest to feign indignance. _“Now_ who’s the flatterer?” he shoots back.

“Hmm. Somehow, I don’t think you mind it.”

They sit in silence for just a moment, content to sip their drinks and catch each other with coy glances. It’s so much beter than the strained kind of silence Jack is used to.

“So,” he says eventually. “Um. Now that we’re sober again, what do we…”

“Direct, aren’t you?” Atlas teases. Though the words are warm, Jack still can’t help but feel _scorched_ by that gaze. “Well, for starters… I’d love to start seein’ you more often, boyo.”

It’s hard to unstick the words from his throat, but he manages. “And I, you.”

“Ahh, now _that’s_ a relief. You know, I wouldn’t mind if y’wanted to keep things casual for a bit, if you’re a bit hesitant to--”

“No! I-I mean--” Realizing how _desperate_ he sounds, Jack stops and forces his racing thoughts to slow. “I don’t… mind. Being more serious about this, that is.” After a fleeting, hesitant pause, he quietly adds, “There aren’t many people I’ve felt so… strongly about, I guess, in what feels like such a short time.” 

“You’re awful sweet, Jackie.”

The words are practically enough to make him _melt._ “I-I’m just being honest,” he insists. And though again he flushes at the pleading tone, the way Atlas’s face softens as he says it almost makes him forget his embarrassment. 

“I know you are,” Atlas soothes him. “Though I have to admit,” he adds, looking rather sheepish, “I’m a bit out a’ practice with this sort of thing.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“What, you think I’m hidin’ a wife an’ kids in the closet?”

“Oh! N-no, of course not. I suppose I just mean that, well. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were more…” Jack bites his lip as he searches for the word. He settles on, “Established?”

His mentor huffs out a laugh. “I think that’s the most polite way you could’ve phrased a question like that, boyo.”

“Well, I _was_ raised to be a suck-up,” Jack says, smiling, though it’s only half a joke.

Atlas shakes his head. “Nah. Seein’ how often you’re in the spotlight, it’s important to know when to hold your tongue.” He looks down at the table between them, fingers tapping thoughtfully against his mug. “You know,” he says after a moment, “if I had a son, I think I’d name him Patrick.”

“And a daughter?”

“Hmm. Alice, I think.” Atlas smiles. “After the lass with the white rabbit.”

“That’s cute,” Jack says before he can stop himself. Why is it that the smallest of details about this man _endear_ him so? He takes a hurried sip of his coffee and falls into silence. Lord, is he hopeless.

They let that quiet linger once more. It lasts until both of them are done with their meal, and running water fills the void as Jack washes the dishes. Luckily they both had an off day today-- training after a late night would be hell. Instead, a pleasant calm settles over Jack’s shoulders as he allows himself to forget his usual schedule and just… _relax._

Marginally, anyway. A bit of nerves still linger as he’s reminded of the new territory he’s in-- _they’re_ in, together. For every brief spark of confidence, there’s something halting and unsure in its wake. 

Fortunately for him, his mentor seems to be in the same boat.

“You know, it’s not that I… _don’t_ like women,” Atlas says-- and then he stops. Jack can practically _hear_ him collecting his thoughts, grasping for the right words. He tries again: “Only that I don’t limit myself to-- or, maybe that I--”

“Swing both ways?” Jack offers.

Now it’s _Atlas’s_ turn to nearly choke on his coffee-- or perhaps on his laughter. Maybe even both. “Ah-- y-yeah, you could say that, boyo.” 

“Sorry-- that’s.” Embarrassed as he is, Jack finds himself smiling, too. “That’s something, ah. Sander Cohen asked me once. At a party.”

“An’ you saw fit to repeat somethin’ _Sander Cohen_ has said to just any old fella?”

 _“Well.”_ He pauses. “No… no, you’re right. I wouldn’t wish a conversation like that on anybody.”

“Might not matter whether you wish it or not.”

Jack frowns. “How do you mean?”

When Atlas next meets his eyes, the look in them is almost conspiratorial. Perhaps grudgingly so. He says, “Let’s just say I’ve been thinkin’ about takin’ that trip to Fort Frolic, meself.”

Everything clicks into place. “You mean the fight with Delta?”

“Aye. It just…” Atlas sighs-- _definitely_ grudging, then-- “It seems too good an opportunity to pass up, don’t it?”

“I would say so.” It’s hard not to appear _too_ eager to see such a match under the bright, glamorous lights of Rapture’s most elite ring. “What made you change your mind?”

“Plenty of things,” Atlas tells him simply. “But I’m not dead set on anythin’ yet.” 

Jack hums, thoughtful. Excitement and apprehension buzzes through him in tandem. Of course, it’s only natural for Atlas to hesitate; if years spent interacting with high society have taught Jack anything, it’s that Fort Frolic’s most prominent guests only enjoy upsetting the status quo in ways that keep _them_ on top. But at the same time… maybe Sinclair had a point. There _is_ a certain appeal to seeing such lofty people… discomfited. 

If only Fontaine could hear such a sentiment coming from his charge. Jack shudders to think of the retort it would earn him.

“Atlas,” he says abruptly. “Will you kiss me?”

One blink, two, mouth gone the slightest bit slack in surprise. Atlas says to him, “Why do you ask?”, even as he’s already rising from his chair, casting Jack in his cool shadow.

“No reason,” Jack tells him. 

It might be a lie-- he’s willing to admit that much. But Atlas doesn’t call his bluff. He simply reaches out, rough hands cradling Jack’s face, and just as it had the night before, Jack’s mind goes blank for one perfect, blissful moment.


End file.
